


Je Vais Casser Votre Monde

by eurosthewanderer



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Other Boleyn Girl - Philippa Gregory, The Spanish Princess (TV), The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, For The Moment, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, The soulmate AU no one asked for, fuck you Philippa Gregory, there will be more, this timeline is as much of a disaster as the timeline of the Spanish Princess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:02:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 78,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23256622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurosthewanderer/pseuds/eurosthewanderer
Summary: December 1511:Anne Boleyn returns from France to find her sister being readied to be become la maîtresse du Roi.10 March 1512:Charles Brandon's lance truck the King's head and Anne couldn't think at all. She felt herself falling to the ground, her vision fuzzy, the sounds around her muffled by the pain crushing her forehead.14 November 1514:Henry VIII weds his second wife four weeks after his divorce from Catalina d'Aragona.
Relationships: Anne Boleyn/Henry Percy 6th Earl of Northumberland, Anne Boleyn/Henry VIII of England, Catherine of Aragon/Henry VIII of England, Elizabeth "Bessie" Blount/Henry VIII of England, George Boleyn/Francis Weston, George Boleyn/Jane Parker Boleyn Lady Rochford
Comments: 172
Kudos: 265





	1. March 1512: La bruit de la prophétie

**Author's Note:**

> So instead of, ya know, working on Purgatory, the Scent of Pomegrants, On Orion's Belt, The Désire of Our Souls etc etc, I decided to write three thousand words of rage after I read the Other Boleyn Girl. I think this'll be ten chapters is I find the energy to finish it. Stay safe folks!
> 
> EDIT: this is now the longent thing I've written......

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to England Anne!

On the 9th of March, 1512 a family meeting was called as a result of Mary's success in the previous week's courtège. _Pageant,_ Anne reminded herself. It was called a _pageant_. 

Anne, Mary, George and their parents answered the Duke of Norfolk’s summons. Norfolk was a tall man with brown hair, la même yeux d’Anne and wrinkles forming beneath his eyes. Anne admired his posture and absolutely nothing else. 

_The same eyes_ , Anne reminded herself of the english. _They shared the same eyes._

En fait, Anne had discovered he had a way of pacing nervously that irritated her. 

She discovered it as she was sitting down at his table. 

“The King has taken an interest in Mary,” The Duke announced. Anne could have told the Duke that. Mary elle a dit le soir dernière. _Mary had told her last night._

Mary turned ses yeux, la même noir yeux d’Anne-the same black eyes as Anne, _it was eyes en anglais. In English. Fuck.-_ to the ground and she wrung her hands together, as was her particular habit.

“We need to act quickly,” Anne’s father said. “The Seymours have a new girl at court. She’s just as pretty as Mary and as docile as a lamb.”

The Seymours were a family of knights and landowners with fat purses and stupid girls. Anne had the new creature, Jane, and found her to be better suited for la vie des religieuses que la vie d’une maîtresse. Anne didn’t actually know what the English called _les religieuses_ . She’d have to ask the Seymour girl. She’d also have to ask her what she thought of les maîtresses des rois. _Royal Mistresses._ _Je m’en fous_ _._

“Forget them,” Norfolk advised, rather wisely in Anne’s opinion. “He hasn’t even noticed the girl.”

“Has he said anything about me?” Mary asked. “The King?”

“No,” Norfolk said. “He won’t. He likes to hunt but prefers willing prey.”

The same could be said pour le Roi Français. _French King._ That didn’t mean that _the prey_ was hot for it. 

“What do I need to do?’ Mary asked.

“Notheeng.” Anne responded, pulling everyone’s attention from Norfolk. Her mother raised a disapproving eyebrow. “ ‘E’s already asked you to be ‘is sweetheart. When ‘e asks for your favor at the joust rougir prettily, baiser le ruban _-ribbon-_ and tie it around ‘is wrist.”

 _Blush prettily, kiss le ruban,_ Anne corrected herself. _Favor. Kiss the favor._

Anne didn’t know what ruban était en anglais. _Was in english. Merde._

“You think he’ll ask?” Mary asked excitedly. “Even with the Queen there?”

“It’s not as if a man can’t wear two favors.” Elizabeth Boleyn responded dryly. Mary opened her mouth but was cut off by her father.

“You sister’s right,” Thomas told Mary, making Anne automatically straighten up in her chair.

“Are you two sharing a room?” Norfolk asked. 

“No,” Anne told him, shaking her head.

“I live with my husband,” Mary added, helpfully. 

“When’s the last time you bled?” Norfolk asked. Anne hated the question and disliked his tone even more. Anne wanted to snap at the man. 

“Just five days ago.” Mary said, her face unredded. C’est nécessaire à admirer sa contrôle- _Anne had to admire her self control._

“Have you fucked Carey since then?” Her uncle asked. 

“No,” Mary responded. Anne gripped the arms of her chair to keep herself from snarling. _Comment oses-tu?_ She thought. _Who the hell do you think you are?_

“Good,” Norfolk said. A sudden, terrible, glorious realization fought its way through the haze of anger clouting Anne’s mind. 

“Shit,” She mumbled under her breath. “Merde.”

George gave her a look. 

The Queen had only had one child survive the birthing bed. It was a boy that had been born on New Years day but failed to live long enough to even see le printemps. Spring. _He’d died before he’d seen his first spring._

“You’ll leave him and return to Anne’s room today.” The Duke said. “This Friday, you’ll tell the King you’ve loved him since the moment you met him when you give him your favor, then, girl, you better pray for a boy every night before you go to bed with him.”

Anne wasn’t sure if she wanted to slam her head against the table or woop with glee. Si vous elle avez dit que Mary serait la mère du prince héritier- _if you’d told her that Mary would be the mother of the Prince of Wales-_ Anne would have called you mad. She’d have to pray that la Reine didn’t welp a son, god save her soul. 

_A Boleyn heir,_ Anne thought, _They could have a Boleyn on the throne._

“We’ll need to order you new dresses,” Anne’s father told Mary. 

“No,” His brother in law said. “Let the King give her new clothes, jewelry, shoes, sheets, horses, hunting dogs, even a waste bucket; everything she has has to come from the King from now on.”

Anne resolved to sew her little sister a new stiffened bodice. Perhaps à la mode française- _in the French style-_ to display and enhance Mary’s petite _taille. Thin something._

 _Midsection?_ Anne wondered. 

Her sister was skinnier than she was but Anne had l _es mieux seins et le mieux cul_ by far. She would have to ask her brother what taille was _en anglais_. 

“Yes Uncle,” Mary responded, looking down. “Do you think he’ll still love me if I don't have a boy?”

Anne stared at her sister with her wide, black yeux. Eyes. _Ça m’est égal._

 _God save them all,_ Anne thought. _Especially Mary. Lord knows she wasn’t going to be able to save herself._

Norfolk laughed. He tossed his brown head back and then he shook it like a dog with fleas. Anne felt her face start to heat. 

“If my luck holds, you’ll put a Howard boy on the throne,” Norfolk told Mary, still chuckling. 

“A Boleyn boy,” Anne corrected snidely. Anne's father let out a fake bark of a laugh. 

“Anne,” Her mother chastised. “Don’t be rude to your Uncle.”

“I apologize for her manners,” Thomas Boleyn said. Anne stared at her father, gobsmacked. 

“It’ll be a _Howard_ ,” Thomas Howard _,_ Duke of Norfolk said. Anne opened her mouth to respond but George kicked her under the table. “You remember who your family is, girl.”

Anne Boleyn knew very well who her family was. She was the firstborn child of Thomas and Elizabeth _Boleyn._ She had come out of the womb, screaming like _un diable de l’enfer,_ covered in her mother’s blood with son jumeau- _her twin brother-_ clinging to her ankle. He’d been named Henry and he’d lived for five hours. 

Anne Boleyn had two siblings; George and Mary. If George had not obviously been her mother’s son, she would not have recognized him. If George had not laughed like Thomas Boleyn, Anne wouldn’t have even thought he was her father’s son. They were very different men. 

Anne and Mary Boleyn had left for the Dutch court a week after her fourth birthday. She’d been sent to France a month before her eighth. Mary, who’d just turned five, was shuffled back to England. Anne a pleuré de sa solitude- _cried because she was lonely_ , that’s what the English would say. When Mary had come back to France five years later, they had barely spoken the same language. No one had thought to give Mary a French tutor and Anne oubliait son anglais. Anne had become a favorite of Anne de la Bretagne- _Anne of Brittany-_ and was one of the maids selected to accompany la Reine sur ses voyages à travers son duché. _Voyages through her duché. Duchy? Lands?_ _Quelle importance?_

Then, two and a half years later, a thirteen year old Mary had been called home for the coronation of Henry VIII, le Roi d’Angleterre, l'Irlande et la France. _King of England, Ireland and France._ Anne had to wonder what would happen if she told him that he only owned the first two? In _French_ nonetheless. 

Anne had had her left arm in a sling from the phantom pains of an injured âme soeur when Mary left. The King apparently had broken his right arm during Edward de la Pole’s attempt on his life or so Mary said in her first letter to Anne. Anne had prayed for him. 

Anne had had a thousand or so other aches and pains from sa âme soeur over the years. La Reine de la France had spent far too many of her evenings kneeling at Anne’s feet, rubbing her calves and thighs while Anne bit back cries of pain. There were some days where Anne could feel every step her âme soeur took because of how badly he’d twisted his ankle and apparently he couldn’t find a cane. La Reine had told Anne les histoires de sa âme soeur- _stories about her soulmate-_ , who she swore up and down- _what a lovely English expression_ -had to have been a soldier. Anne would never, could never forget the awful day when Anne de la Bretagne had fallen to the ground, screeching in pain. Le Roi a été passer deux semaine at La Reine’s bedside while she recovered. _He’d spent two weeks at her bedside._ Her âme soeur had been stabbed in the stomach and died after five days of agony. 

After Mary left Anne had had to keep that arm in a sling for another two months and Anne de la Bretagne had sat her down and told her she thought that Anne’s âme soeur était un jouteur professionnel. _Professional jouster._ Anne's thighs had been hurting that day from what must have been a hard ride. _Sal con._

The next letter from Mary came five months after Anne’s sixteenth birthday to tell her she was betrothed. La Reine Anne had entered confinement the next day so Anne never got around to writing back. Anne had accompanied sa maîtresse into confinement five times at that point. Anne liked to think she was a thousand times more prepared pour l’enfantement que la majorité des femelles et était encore toujours une femme seule- _for childbirth than the majority of brides and she was still unmarried._ That baby had been la petite princesse Renée. 

Anne had been called back to England ten and a half months after her seventeenth birthday for Mary’s wedding and her own engagement to some Irish cousin. George had written that the negotiations over the Ormond title got worse by the day, despite the actual Earl of Ormond, Anne’s arrière-grand-père- _great grandfather_ , Anne hated English-requesting the intervention of the Privy Council and the King. Anne had missed Mary’s wedding and her sixteenth birthday because La Reine was on a progress à travers de la Bretagne- _through Brittany_ . Anne had loved riding behind her mistress in a dress that matched those des autres femmes de la Reine- _the other ladies in waiting_ , with their caps tilted to the side and their hair braided up in the most elaborate styles de la mode italienne- _the most elaborate italian styles_ . The people had screamed and applauded and called out blessings and named them le plus loyal à la Bretagne- _Brittany's most loyal_. 

Anne, la Reine française, had sent Anne la Boleyn à l’Angleterre- _to England-_ with a generous dowery of fifteen thousand francs in thanks for her service and held Anne to her full bosom when Anne broke down crying. Anne remembered kissing _Sa Reine, Sa Duchesse_ like she’d kissed men before she mounted her horse. 

Le premier temps Anne had seen the Duke of Norfolk was at mass, exactly three days after she had arrived at la cour anglaise-the English court. To the foul, irritating, cold English court. Norfolk had looked down his long nose at her and barely greeted her. Yet Anne was expected to show him filial deference and piety.

The evening after the family meeting, Anne undressed Mary, seething like a puffed up vipère- _viper._ She all but tore the clothes from Mary’s back, feeling the frayed strings and looking over the fine but unsuitable stitching. 

“Comment il expects to make you all but a Queen when he can’t even be bothered to outfit you like one je ne pu pas imaginée- _I cannot imagine."_ Anne spat, forgetting her English as she had a habit of doing when she didn’t have to remember it. 

“Anne,” Mary grumbled. Anne knew she found it annoying when Anne spoke “franglaise,” as George had labeled it. That didn’t stop the dark haired Boleyn. 

“ ‘Ow dare he?” Anne continued as the door to the sister’s room unceremoniously swung open. “Un Prince d’ ‘Oward. Un Roi d’ ‘Oward. Non, il va étre _-he will be-a_ Boleyn like you.” _He will be a Boleyn like you._

“What’s bit you in the arse, my sweet, sweet sister?” George said as he strolled in, seeming to not even notice Mary’s state of undress. Anne stopped unlacing Mary’s petticoat. He had a wine jug and three cups in his hands. 

“She’s angry at Uncle.” Mary told him. 

George chuckled and Anne bristled. She wanted to hit something but settled for glaring at her brother. 

“He can be a bit blunt.” George conceded. “But he means well.”

He set the glasses on leur table de toilette and poured out the wine. Then he handed them to his sisters. 

“A King for you,” He said as he handed a cup to Anne. “And an Irish Earl for you.”

“Oops,” Mary giggled.

“Yes, my pretty little sister,” He said as he toasted. “The King is all yours.”

“And untold riches for you.” Anne responded, raising her glass. Little did she realise that George’s lapsus avaient _le bruit de la prophétie-his words had the touch of prophecy_. 

I’ll toast to that.” Mary said. She had a look of a maid in the first flush de son premier amour. Anne suddenly could not stomach a sip of wine. She mimed it. 

“Mary, you must be careful.” Anne counseled before turning to her brother. “George, you've said it yourself. ‘E’s mercurial, moody and easily changeable.”

“Anne,” Mary groaned. “I swear she’s hated Uncle since she met him.”

“He's no worse than you, Annamarie.” George told her. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” Anne asked her sister. “Who ze ‘ell is this man to come traipsing into our lives and order your marriage; w’ore you out; order my marriage and traipse right back out?”

“Be careful Anne,” George warned but failed to shut his older sister up.

“That’s what he’s going to do if Mary’s premier bébe n’est pas un fils.” _If Mary’s first baby_ _i_ _sn’t a son._ Anne snapped at her brother, working herself up into a panicked fury. “ ‘E’s got a dozen other Howard ‘ores dans la maison de la Reine and tu es un idiot si tu penses que he won’t use them- _in the Queen’s household and you are an idiot if you think that he won’t use them.”_

“God, Anne,” George took a deep gulp of his wine and put his hand on her shoulder. “The King suggested your match not Uncle Howard. _He_ just thought it would be for the good of the family.”

“Ze family?” Anne asked. “Zen why doesn’t father ‘ave his title? Why is it still wiz zat Irishman?”

“Why don’t you say that to James Butler and see what he thinks of you?” Mary suggested.

Anne should have married in France like La Reine had wanted. She’d all but paraded Anne in front of every unwed Duc et Comte à la cour- _at court_ , unwilling to allow Anne settle for anything less than _un marquis du sang royal_ . La Reine would take her to parlors or saloons and sit the two of them with John d’Auvergne most often. Il était un homme ancien, mais gentil- _he was an old but kind man-_ and Anne had liked him well enough but he died. Anne had been too young anyways. After D’Auvergne, Anne had chosen Charles, Duc d’Alençon for herself, before Marguerite de Valois a offert- _was offered_ . Then there had been the Duc de Longueville’s newly widowed brother and the now late duc’s heir as well. Louis had given her her favorite pearl earring et les bijou rubis qu’elle les aimes- _and the ruby jewels that she loved_. Anne wondered what would have happened if he’d been at court when she was sent away. She liked to think that he would have dropped to one knee and begged for la Reine to intervene and let him have her. Anne doubted that would have actually happened. 

“Like I give two figs for ‘im,” Anne shrieked in a fit of spite. “Or ze Duke. They can rot for all I care.”

“Aren’t you loyal to this family?” George squeezed her arm.

“Yes,” Anne responded, feeling her anger bubble down to a simmer. “Yes, I am.”

On the day of the joust, the 10th de mars _-March tenth,_ Anne wore her yellow dress with la jupe francaise- _french skirt_ -but an English bodice. It was too tight, en l’opinion d’Anne- _in Anne’s opinion_. The loose French dresses she favored were better suited to her modesty. Anne would have to wear a high collar if she wanted to not look close to a slattern in the ill made bodice in this ill suited, ugly style. 

Mary wore a dull deep blue dress that brought out the dark color of her eyes and complemented her gold hair. She wore it loose on Anne’s recommendation. 

“You ought to wear red,” Anne told her, yet again, as Mary brushed her bloody hair until it glinted. “Ze color makes amourous men even hotter.”

“You call me a whore and then tell me how to get a man hot?” Mary said. 

“Well, you asked you twit,” Anne responded, standing behind her sister. She was glaring down at Mary where she sat at leur _table de toilette-their vanity table_. Anne had been planning on putting her hair up. Mary didn’t respond but rather shut her eyes and kept running her brush through her hair. 

Anne never got to braid her hair. She pulled it up in a net, exposing her elegant neck and far too pointed chin but without the elaborate braids that kept men’s eyes on the upper part of her face. Anne had pulled her bangs looser so that they hung with some slack about her forehead but her bun was tightly tied at the back. She walked two paces behind Mary when they approached les stands de jouter. _Viewing stands. Jousting seats._

Anne hated English some days. 

Her stomach also happened to be rolling with a phantom hangover. Anne also hated her âme soeur some days. Anne hoped the drunkard had his head in the privy. _Dé_ _goûtant_. _Disgusting._

Anne wasn’t quite sure why God had cursed her with such a man. She also wondered what he’d done to deserve her. She certainly got her revenge monthly.

Mary walked slowly, just as Anne had instructed her. They were already late but Anne knew arriving _en retard_ might make it easier to net the King. _How can a man be trop bête-stupid-as to not recognise that he himself was la proie-the prey?_ Anne wondered.

Additionally, Anne wouldn’t have this done in front of the Queen. When you were being courted by a man you certainly didn’t want his wife to know it. At least, elle a pensé l’idée n’était pas sage- _s_ _he didn’t think it was wise_ . She did not know Catalina D’Aragona well enough to not expect trouble. Elle a manquée sa reine- _she missed her Queen._ Anne de la Bretagne would have known some trick or other to end this mess. 

Anne would have told her. Anne would have given up her place as the Aunt of the King pour sa Reine- _for her Queen_.

The two young Boleyn women had the luck of the devil and caught the King dressed in a leather jerkin, riding boots and a belt with a sword. Anne noticed he had bags under his eyes before she curtsied deeply. 

“Sweetheart,” The King said, striding up to Mary. He had Mr. Brandon with him. Anne had heard he was recently divorced, _encore-again_. _Pour la deuxieme temps-_ for the second time _._ Anne disliked him on principle. Anne shuffled to the side so she was standing next to the blond man, less than five steps away from the King. Anne watched with a slight, twisted, worried smile as the King bent his head to speak with Mary. Anne strained her sharp ears to listen to their whispering. Mary’s face was nearly as pink as her full lips and her eyes were alight. The King leaned forward until his mouth brushed her ears. 

The King was such un grand homme que- _such a big man that-_ , even after un mois au la cour anglais- _at the english court-,_ Anne was consistently surprised by just how controlled he was. When he danced he was more fleet footed than most women. His stride changed depending on who he walked with; avec sa reine- _with his queen_ -his steps were short and slow little movements that made his hips swing almost like a woman’s but when capering with Mr. Brandon, Sir William Compton, George or whomever else he strode ahead, limbs looser but still stiff. Anne had also noticed that when he entered a room his eyes would scan over its occupants but as he strode through them they would become fixed straight ahead. She couldn’t quite figure out why he surprised her but, perhaps, she had expected some jovial, explosive, careless, red faced colosse d’un homme- _giant of a man_. Instead, his thin hips and almost womanly taille- _waist, it was called a waist-_ were barely concealed by his broad shoulders, big hands and loose jackets. At least, to Anne’s eyes his more féminine body seemed obvious. It suited him surprisingly well, matching his high cheekbones and thin, pink mouth. Jesus, il était plus joli qu’Anne, mais ne plus pas Mary- _he was prettier than Anne, but not more so than Mary._ Anne swore her sister had to be one of the most beautiful women in England, even rivaling the Queen. 

There was something about le Roi that made Anne’s hair stand on end. Anne watched him far too closely, she knew that, but when she had seen his eyes go cold even as he laughed at something a seigneur- _gentleman-_ had said she had been glad she did. She had wondered if she’d imagined the look until she saw it for the 39th time. It was as if he had seen under someone’s skin and he could see leur sang comme il pompait à travers leur corps- _their blood as it pumped through their body_.

Mary curtsied to the King and untied her favor from her wrist. The ribbon was white with gold stitches. The picture of la chasteté et la richesse- _purity and wealth_ -from the wife of a minor knight.

“Thank you,” The King said, a soft, closed smile on his lips. “Sweetheart.”

Mary’s response was to grasp his hand and press his knuckles to her lips. The gesture made his eyes smile alongside his mouth.

Bon _-good_. Anne thought. _Très bon-very good._

“Will you cheer for me?” The King asked.

“Of course, your highness,” Mary responded. “I’ll scream the loudest of them all.”

That Mary did not do. It was actually the Queen.

Anne stood at the back of the royal box, looking over all the seated ladies and of course the Queen herself. The little Spaniard’s red hair was barely visible over the back of her throne. Anne had been plus grand quand elle a eu onze années- _when she was eleven_. 

She watched impassively as Henry Norris knocked Charles Brandon to the dirt and one William Compton was tossed from his saddle by a french professional. Anne had seen le _chêvalier-the_ _knight_ -win half a dozen jousts and twice as many melées both a la cour du _Roi-at the King's_ court-and during smaller provincial tournaments. George had told her there weren’t as many jousts in England. La noblesse didn’t have the money for it. _Quel dommage. What a pity._

The King was supposed to joust third, against Anne’s father of all people. She wanted to see him knock Mary’s _soupirant_ on his royal arse. Anne would have to ask Mary what _soupirant_ meant en anglais. _Suitor_ , _it meant suitor._

She wanted Thomas Boleyn to strike a blow for his family; for his daughter’s honor. But that was foolish. Mary’s honor était la prix pour le trône. Mary aurait été la mère de Roi futur si les Boleyns sont maintenu à leurs choices. _Mary’s honor was the price for the throne. She would be the mother of the future King if the Boleyn luck held._

Yet, Anne’s uncle’s words gnawed at her while a cheer erupted. _You remember your family, girl._

The King entered the lists. Anne quickly clapped but was still a moment behind everyone else. Thankfully, she was à l’arrière of the box- _at the back of the box_. 

The King rode up to the Queen and extended his lance dutifully tied her green ribbon around his lance. Anne could see an exquisitely stitched pomegranate at one of the ends. Anne hated sewing her own ribbons. 

“His highness!!” The herald called as Henry Tudor, King of England, Eighth of his name returned to the end of the tilt. 

“Mr. Charles Brandon,” The herald shouted. 

_Que??_ _What?_ Anne thought. She stared at the back of the Queen’s throne in shock and anger. _Why would my father forfeit a joust against the King?_

It was an honor to have been selected for the first ride against his highness. Her father was sure to lose with practice, skill and practicality all working against a Boleyn victory but, still, he ought to have rode. 

_Mary,_ Anne realised. _La raison était Mary et Norfolk-the reason was Mary and Norfolk._

The herald brought down his flag and the two men rode forward. Anne couldn’t see what caused the crowd to start screaming in panic before the jousters had even struck. The Queen herself sprung up from sa trône- _her throne,_ Anne thought, _why did the english insist upon bastardizing all things French?-_ and shouted. 

When the King came into view with the motto “she hath wounded my heart” embroidered on his horse’s corapison in cloth of gold, Anne could see that his upper visor was open. 

_Satané bête_ _,_ Anne thought, mind readying a dozen other insults pour l’idiot Roi. Then Charles Brandon’s lance struck the King’s head and Anne couldn’t think at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pageant in this chapter is based off of Château Vert Pageant which took place on March 4th 1522. It's hypothesized that, historically, it was when Henry VIII noticed Anne and Mary Boleyn for the first time and in the Other Boleyn Girl it's where he very publically hits on Mary so I've used it as a set up. On March 2nd 1522 Henry VIII used the motta "she hath wounded my heart" for the annual Shrovetide joust. While the other jouster's mottos show that it was likely chosen to fit a theme (see the Anne Boleyn Files' article on the joust), it's just much more fun to write about if it's for Mary.


	2. March 1512: Alma Gemela

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne has 99 problems and Le Roi has become every single one.

She felt herself falling to the ground, her vision fuzzy, the sounds around her muffled by the pain crushing her forehead. She thought she might faint as the agony wrapped around her scalp, threatening to crack her head like an egg. 

Anne shook herself and put a hand on the wood to try and get to her feet, only to have her neck throb in protest. 

There was a wave of shoes and skirts in front of her as Catalina d’Aragona et ses dames d’honneur rushed to the king. Anne a reconnu les chaussures de Mary a milieu de la cavalcade. Mary didn’t even stop to see to Anne, she just ran along with the other woman to Henry Tudor. 

Anne got up and stumbled down the stairs herself, so blinded by the sunlight that she tripped on her own skirts and fell down the last three steps. Anne caught herself on her hands and newly bruised knees. _Ce_ _Tudor salaud._ She thought. _Non. Non,nonnononono._

Her head felt like it had been struck by a mallet. _A lance._ Le Roi a été- _the King was-_ struck with _a lance._ Even her jaw was beginning to throb. Her neck was tightening into an immoble mass of muscle while her head swirled, as if she were aboard a ship in a storm. Anne sat back on her haunches, put her slender hands over her face and began to shake. The King’s head had been thrown backwards when it was struck. His jaw must have hit his lower visor when it snapped back forward. His knees and shins would be hurting as well. They’d hold the phantom aches of Anne’s fall.

Anne found herself, for the first time in her life, struck dumb _de peur._ She couldn’t remember being this terrified in her life, it made her lungs tight and a sudden pressure on her bladder made her think she was about to piss herself. 

_Jesus Christ sauve mon âme. Save my soul. Sauve mon âme,_ Anne prayed. _Save my soul. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Maria, gratia plena, ave, ave. Mother please have mercy on me._

“Mistress Boleyn?” A soft voice asked. 

“Anne, are you well?” Another came from above her. 

Anne looked up to see her cousin, Madge Shelton, and Nan Gainesville standing over her. 

“Oui,” Anne managed to stutter out, her voice weak. Madge looked at her incredulously. 

“Mistress Boleyn?” Yet another worried, familiar voice sounded. Harry Percy wedged himself and his blue cap between the two women and knelt down beside her. 

“May I help you to your feet, Mistress?” He asked, extending his hand. Anne took his and got to her feet, her legs were so weak that she almost fell back to the ground. It was Madge who grasped her left arm to hold her up. 

“Thanks,” Anne said. Percy put his hand on her lower back to support her. 

“My ladies, I should tell you that the King is alive.” Harry told the three of them. Anne felt her hand start to shake in his grip. 

“Praise god.” Madge responded. 

“He is not even injured.” Harry assured Anne. 

_That was a lie,_ Anne thought but she bit her tongue. _Dieu sauve mon âme. God save my soul._

“Come on, Annie,” Madge said. “We’ll take you to see him.”

Anne could have gone une mille des années sans la vue du Roi. _A thousand years._

_Non_ , Anne thought, _a million years. Two million._

_I want to go home,_ Anne thought, _I want to wake up from ce cauchemar. I want to wake up. Je desiré Anne. I want ma Reine._

Anne wanted to wrap her arms around her former mistress and cry. Anne de la Bretagne had acted comme une mère substitute- _a surrogate mother-_ for the youngest girls in her household. She would have them sent to her when les filles avaient les cauchemar or for whatever else. Nightmares. _Cauchemars were nightmares,_ Anne reminded herself. _God hadn’t given her this. He couldn’t have given her this punishment._

Harry Percy, good on his word, led the three women to the very edge of the tiltyard, pushing his way through the crowd as he did so. Madge kept a gentil grasp on her arm and Harry held her hand. They steadied her. 

The King was standing in the middle of the tiltyard, one hand resting on the flank of his black stallion and the other rubbing his jaw. The King’s hair was sticking out, this way and that. In the few rays of sunlight that filtered through the January clouds it was only a shade lighter than blood.

Catalina d’Aragona stood in front of him, her pale face gone corpse white in terror. The King took his hand from his face and put it on her shoulder, clearly in an act of comfort. The Queen smiled up at him, said something Anne desperately desired to hear and he kissed her forehead. The movement made Anne’s neck twinge. Anne decided in that moment, heart pounding in agony, holding Harry Percy’s hand, that she would pray, chaque nuit _-that night-_ , that Catalina d’Aragona had a dozen boys. The royal couple turned, Henry took his wife’s hand and beamed at the crowd. 

“I am well!” The King announced. 

_Liar. He most definitely was not en bonne santé-in good health._ Anne thought snidely. _I hope he falls flat in the mud._

“Let the festivities continue!” He said. 

His voice did not boom, it’s depth was middling, perhaps just a touch lower than Anne’s. It was surprisingly even and Anne had to begrudgingly admire that. She could barely open her mouth.

The King guided his Queen toward the crowd. He stood straight, shoulder’s back, chin tilted up, eyes calm. If the Queen so much as pressed a kiss to his temple Anne was going to fall to the ground screaming. She wondered how she’d gotten back up.

The King and the Queen strode into the crowd and Anne leaned heavily on Madge as she knelt. When she caught a glimpse of the King’s face, she saw it was so pale that she could make out the moles on his jaw. Anne hated those moles as much as she hated how the King stood straight, shoulder’s back, chin tilted up and eyes calm. 

Madge released her arm to get up but Henry Percy’s firm hand moved to the top of her arm and helped her up. When Anne was standing on her coltish legs she did not look back at her âme soeur for she couldn't turn her head but smiled at Harry Percy and sat with him for the rest of the joust. She enjoyed son gentil compagnie- _his gentil company-_ so much that she missed Mary having a breakdown. 

Anne had disagreed with Anne la Reine when she’d told her that she thought Anne’s âme soeur n’était pas un soldat- _wasn’t a soldier_. Instead she found he was a King. _Ce Roi-this king._ Enculé.

Anne wonder what sa reine would think of this. 

It surprised her how the King never seemed to be free of bumps, bruises, broken bones, sore joints, les froissers de ses jambs- _strained leg muscles-_ et les ongles cassés- _broken nails._ Anne would have to ask what froisser was in English. _Hurt legs? Not broken but simply aching;_ constantly aching _._

There had been days and nights à la cour francaise where Anne’s body ached so badly she didn’t want to get out of bed. Right before Mary left, when Anne was fifteen, the moron had broken his wrist _while_ she was dancing in front of both her father, le Roi and the new Spanish ambassador. She swore that if she met her âme soeur before she was summoned to heaven that she would slap him. Slapping le Roi would be _la trahison-treason._

Anne was still considering it. 

Anne était totalement certain que- _utterly certain that-_ she was going to hit Mary so hard that la petite chienne stupide- _lit_ _tle stupid bitch-_ saw stars. Anne thanked Jesus that George hadn’t taken the last chair at Norfolk’s table or she would have collapsed. Son frére- _her brother-_ was standing with his hand on the back of her chair. Anne could feel him watching her, waiting for a breakdown, waiting for her to collapse. Anne _refused to._ She would not give _that man_ the privilege of hurting her yet again. He had already done enough damage to her. 

Her temples were pounding in time with her heartbeat. When she’d gone to sit down her vision had blurred so badly that she’d collapsed into her chair. She wanted to pour herself un verre de vin- _glass of wine-_ but couldn’t summon l’énergie to open her mouth to even ask for one. She hoped that man, _le Roi,_ a pleure dans son lit- _was crying in his bed_. Preferably with a physician at his side. 

Harry Percy had told her he would be coming to see how she was doing the next morning and Anne would need her rest. She rather wanted to impress him. 

“Why would you do that?” Norfolk asked Mary, clearly enraged. It was controlled rage but his voice grated on her ears like the scrape of teeth on a knife. It made the pain in the back of her head even worse. 

_When I am queen I am going to have his tongue cut out,_ Anne thought petulantly. The thought suddenly made her throat close up. She imagined the King’s cold brown eyes looking down his strong nose at her. She imagined his cold, thin hips between her thighs, his big cold hands on her breasts and his hot wine stinking breath on her face. _Or not._

“I don’t know,” Mary responded. Her sister was all but hunched in on herself, her head bent to the ground. “I was scared.”

“Of what?” Elizabeth Boleyn asked sharply. “That your trinket had gotten dirty?”

“What’s done is done.” Thomas Boleyn grunted. 

“Honestly,” Anne’s mother continued. “I can’t believe this. Acting like a girl blinded by her first love.”

“Uncle,” George yelped as Anne leaned forward in her chair, heavily lidded eyes narrowing to slits. “What’s to be done now?”

“ She _iz_ a geerl blinded by 'er first love,” Anne reminded her mother, voice packed with enough poison to fell the entirety of la cour anglaise; servants, bastards, kitchen boys. The whole lot of them. There was a brief pause as Anne’s black eyes searched the faces of her mother, father, uncle and sister for something other than blankness. Mary wilted further under gaze. 

_God save her sister,_ Anne thought. _Cette famille vont-this family will-send her to the pits of hell._

There was a second- _a flash of a half formed thought-_ where she stood up and told her mother, father, brother, sister, _Uncle_ what she’d learned. They’d laugh.

 _I’m not the one he wants._ Anne reminded herself as her throat tightened. _He wanted Mary._ _Putain_ _, everyone wanted Mary. Mary had been married first despite the fact that she était plus âgé par deux ans que Mary-she was two years older than Mary. Mary had been taken home while Anne had been forgotten in France for so long she couldn’t even talk to her own mother._ Cet homme _wanted her not Anne. Even her own soulmate wanted Mary._

“We’ve got to correct this,” Norfolk said. “Unless she makes some public prostration of sorrow she’s done and that’ll only cause her further shame.”

Anne imagined Mary lying on her belly, face down like a rug in front of the King. Anne stopped thinking. Elle ne désirait pas à imaginer le Roi- _she didn’t want to imagine the king._ He’d already done enough damage. 

“I’ll do it,” Mary announced, finally looking up and displaying her red rimmed, jolie yeux marron- _pretty brown eyes_. “I don’t care. I’ll do it.”

 _Bien sûr_ _. No,_ Anne thought. _I won’t let you commit incest._

“Send her to ‘ever until l’été.” Anne said. 

“The what?” Norfolk asked. 

“Été.” Anne said, unable to remember the English word. “Ze four months away from court will allow the King to forget ze offense.”

“The _ita_.” Norfolk asked again.

“Quand la cour y aller en progress- _When the court goes on progress.”_ Anne responded.

 _Imbécile_ _,_ Anne thought.

“L’ _été_.” George told Norfolk. 

“You speak like a Breton,” Norfolk grunted. Anne decided to tilt her head and graciously accept the compliment. 

“What good’ll that do us?” Anne’s father asked.

“Will Compton told me that the King usually only has mistresses during the summer,” George told him. “He was in his cups. The rest of the time the two of them and Brandon go whoring when the Queen can’t go to bed.”

“It’s set then,” Elizabeth Boleyn said. “Mary goes to Hever.”

Anne didn’t look at her sister. She could hear Mary’s sniffles well enough that she didn’t need to look over to see the tears dripping down her cheeks.

“The key will be whether or not she can hold him,” Norfolk said.

“I think I can,” Mary’s voice cracked as she spoke. 

“Think or know?” Thomas Boleyn asked his youngest daughter.

“She can do it,” Anne said, somehow keeping the disgust out of her voice. “She’s a 'oward and a _Boleyn._ ”

In Anne’s opinion Leviticus 18:16 and Leviticus 18:21 were uninteresting but, that night, as Mary cried into her pillow, Anne dug them out of the Bible. Leviticus 18:16 said to “take thy soul’s sister as thy own. She is the same as thy own sister just as thy soul’s brother is thy’s brother. They should be welcomed into thy house and should they have no father it is thy duty to see them wed.” 

Leviticus 18:21 said that “thy soul is thy flesh and to harm her is to harm thyself...and the flesh of thy soul’s kin is the same as the flesh of thy kin and to lay amongst it is the same as lying amongst thy kin. Thy must respect thy soul’s father and mother as thy treats thy own father and mother and provide for them in their old age as one provides for thy father and mother. ”

Anne traced her middle finger over the words, cursing her memory, cursing the King, cursing her flesh, cursing Mary, cursing her very soul. 

“What are you doing?” Anne’s sister’s voice rang out in the darkness. 

“Reading.” Anne said. “Go to sleep.”

“Don’t waste the candle,” Mary mumbled. 

Anne looked over at her baby sister, temples throbbing and jaw twinging, as she turned son cou- _her neck._ Mary looked little more than twelve when she slept. Her unbraided gold hair was spread in a halo around her head as she laid on her back. San main gauche _-her left hand-_ held the edge of her blanket right above her heart. Anne bent down and kisses Mary's temple.

 _Well isn’t that wonderful,_ Anne thought. _If Norfolk gets his way, ma petite soeur, we’re to become the worst of rivals._

Anne would simply have to ensure Norfolk did not get his way.

En la France, Anne had, to her father’s horror, only had time to pray once a day and take confession once every deux semaines-two weeks. She had been une demoiselle d’honneur à la Reine-a lady in waiting to the queen-and Anne de la Bretagne kept her running until Anne collapsed in her soft bed. She had had her own bed when la Reine resided with her husband and when she traveled her bunkmate was often la Reine herself. Anne was used to being alone in her room but not used to being alone in her room naught to do but think. After Mary had been packed off to Hever, Anne found herself returned to a warped version of the living state to which she was accustomed. It was uncomfortable.

Anne had found a corner in a small hallway just around the back of the Queen’s rooms where she could sit and think when she en avoir marre de la chapelle-got tired of the chapel. Even the soft singing of a choir at practice could grate on the ear if heard too frequently. A week after Mary left Anne had sat herself in her little corner and began to sew. Mary had forgotten one of her smocks. Anne found it crumpled beneath when she was cleaning a day after Mary had left. Yes, she was that bored and the maid only cleaned once a month. C’est répugnant. Anne had decided to repair the smock’s frayed neckline. She’d give it back to Mary when the summer arrived.

Anne dreaded the thought. It consumed her mind during the sluggish mornings she sat sewing and chattering with some of her fellow ladies in waiting. It would gnaw at her while she took mass with the Queen and it would worm it’s way under her skin when she tried to read.

Anne had never had so little to do in her entire life. Madge, Nan, Harry Percy and Jane Rochford, a new arrival at court, relieved some of her boredom but they were, unfortunately, not enough. She was used to accompanying la Reine, Anne de la Bretagne when she ate, walked, prayed, met with secretaries, lords, ambassadors and whomever else. She got none of that intellectual stimulation with Catalina D’Aragona. When Anne got older, she had even attended her Duchess, her Queenon nights when Le Roi had visited. 

That was the one duty Anne wouldn’t want in the English Court. Dans la journée-in the daytime-she could dismiss the thought as dégoûtant-disgusting-mais dans le nuit-but in the night-it would crawl up from her belly into her throat to choke her when she tried to sleep. The image of her âme soeur’s buttocks flexing and hips thrusting as he rutted were foul enough but the thought of the sounds that would fill the room was un mille-a thousand-times worse. Anne would’ve gladly cleaned latrines rather than sit there and listen to her âme soeur mate with his Spanish wife. 

Mating was another word for the rutting of dogs. Soulmate was a distasteful word in Anne’s opinion, if an accurate one. 

Women and men were both punished twice over for Eve’s sin. After Eve took the apple, God in His wisdom took Eve’s soul and placed it within Adam and placed Adam’s soul within Eve. In fact, God was especially merciful to Eve for Adam had not been made of her flesh as she was of his. He took Adam’s blood and placed it within her body, ensuring he would now feel her pain as she did his. God tied their bodies together and gave each of them into one another’s keeping before he chased them from Eden. They lived like animals; foraging, sleeping and rutting like animals in the desert and when Lilith had appeared in her devilish mockery, Adam found his flesh could not be stirred by her. So, therefore, mating or rutting would be a proper term for a joining of souls. Henry would only be able to rutt with Anne if he had her.

Anne far prefered âme soeur, the French word for this entire mess. It meant soul sister, a lovely set of words that had made Anne’s face light up into a un grand sourire-a big smile-when she heard happy little stories about some milkmaid finding some farmer in some ville pitoyable en France-pitiable town in France. 

_Fuck them,_ Anne thought in her little corner as she mended. _I hope they have a dozen children and the little farmer feels every second of it._

Anne had heard it preached in France that every last homme et femme-man and woman-was born with their spouse chosen for them. Le prêtre-the priest-had later been accused of heresy. Anne thought it was because he had failed to mention that that spouse had been given your soul and your body as a reminder of your original sin. 

Anne understood Spanish but couldn’t speak it. She would always drop the last letter as was custom in French and hated the grammar. Loathed it. She also loathed how her French accustomed tongue would battle her as she tried to spit out the duller Spanish accent but Alma gemela was Spanish for âme soeur. It meant soul twin. Anne wasn’t sure she wanted to think about that. 

Deuteronomy 25:5 said “a man who discovered and laid with his alma gemela would be forced to give up his wife for he would no longer be able to fulfill his duty to her but it was his duty to wed her to his nearest kinsman so that she may be provided for.” Then it said; “If he does not she ought to spit in his face in front of the entire village.” Finally, Deuteronomy said “a woman who discovered the one who held her soul was obliged to sue for divorce for she could no longer be a faithful wife in the eyes of god.” 

The laws of men did not apply to Kings. 

It would be Mary Carey née Boleyn and Anne herself who would brûle en l’enfer-burn in hell-if she kept silent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry VIII suffered that jousting accent due to those exact circumstances on March 10th 1524. Except he didn't have a soul mate wanting to slip him across the face.


	3. April 1512: Maîtresse Bolaine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Anne makes one very good choice and one bad one.

  
  
_Your highness,_ Anne wrote.

_I feel compelled to warn you of a plot against the Queen and the saintety-sanctity-of your bloodline. The Duc of Norfolk has conspired to entice your majesty into sin with the intent of making a bastard of his blood the Prince of Wales. His grace would have you get the child by the good Mistress Mary Carey, who, bearing such a great love for her husband, was made to agree by threats. I would have no other kinswoman disrespected in such a mannière._

_The Duc spoke not of the Queen, but I fear her securitie may be at risk._

_Your humble servant_

Anne didn’t sign it. 

It read well enough en son avis- _in her opinion._ Anne pinched her nose and bit back a sigh.

 _Faire d’une pierre-kill two birds with one stone,_ Anne thought. _Cripple Norfolk and save herself from hell._

The arse deserved it after all.

God save her father from this maelstrom. 

Anne picked up her pen for a second time and wrote to her sister. 

Anne made sure to touch her brother even more often than she normally did. She wound her arm beneath his, clasped his hand, kissed his cheek and laughed at his jokes. George n’était jamais drôle- _George was never funny._ Anne made sure to knock her elbow against his belt and slipped her fingers into his purse every second time they hugged. Son frère n’était pas stupide, elle a eu besoin de prudence- _her brother wasn’t stupid, she had to be careful._

Anne didn’t expect a response to her letter for about a month, given the time it took to ride to Hever and back but she knew well enough that she’d need to practice swapping the letters. Hopefully she’d just be able to trade the two before Mary’s was in his pocket but it was best to be prepared. 

_Cet homme_ seemed to always be prepared. It was un négligent- _sloppy-_ ,disguised kind of preparedness. Un faux négligence _-a fake carelessness._ Anne had to admire it. He was very skilled. 

Anne had been sitting on a couch next to Jane Rochford when the King brought the new Spanish ambassador, sewing, ou, rather, elle a annulé- _or, rather, she was undoing-_ her stitches.

The doors banged open with their usual grandiosity to reveal the King and a curly haired man of middling height. _Cet homme’_ s doublet was tailored tightly to his waist but the cut along his arms made them look larger than Anne had guessed them to be. It wasn’t as if she’d him avec un torse nu- _shirtless._

“Princess Summertime!” He called, striding across the room to his wife. Anne saw him glance at her. 

_La princesse d’été?_ Anne thought. _Well, c’est réellement mignon-that’s truly cute._

“Your highness,” The Queen got up and curtsied. The King bowed. 

“May I have the pleasure of presenting someone who would very much like to be your friend?” The King inquired. 

“If he is your friend then I shall be glad to meet him,” Catalina D’Aragona responded. 

“Ambassador Chapuis, my lady.” The King informed her. 

As he stepped back to allow the Ambassador to make his introduction, his eyes flicking toward her. Anne held his gaze and raised an eyebrow. He wrenched his head away.

“C’est un plaisir, votre majeste,” Chapuis said to the Queen. 

“Non,” The Queen responded in perfect _, Parisian accented French._ “C’est mon plaisir.”

 _Talk to me then, you fool._ Anne thought as she forced her eyes down onto her skirts. 

“Tell me, Ambassador,” Catherine asked. “How is my beloved nephew?”

The King backed away from the two of them, as if signaling that his wife was to be the diplomat, not he. He strode through the ladies until he came to the back of the room. He was standing right behind Anne. Anne forced herself to resume fixing her stitches.

“Will,” She heard the King say. “I’d like to have a tennis match later. Charles is insisting upon doubles and I’m in need of a partner.”

Anne gave up and glanced over her shoulder at him. He was looking at Compton but his fingers were on the back out the couch, directly behind Anne. She looked away again. 

_Kill me,_ Anne thought. _Tuer moi, s’il vous plaît._

“It’d be my honor,” Compton responded. “Though I think my purse will curse me for it.”

“You think we’ll lose?” The King laughed. That’s when Anne felt her chevaux lâche- _loose hair-_ being pushed over her shoulder. She went rigid, long nails digging into her palms through the cloth of her handkerchief. 

“No, your highness,” Compton said. “But Brandon bets on serves and you bet on points.”

“And sometimes I think you’re a cheat for how often you win.” The King responded. Anne jumped as he traced two fingers down the back of her neck, starting at her hairline and going down to the skin tellement avant sa robe- _just above her dress_ . Anne could feel ses cals- _his calluses_ -and the edge of his nails as he ran his fingers back up her neck, leaving goosebumps in his wake. His fingers weren’t rough but they weren’t soft, just hard enough to belong to the man who gave Anne her thousand daily aches. His fingers danced so lightly upon her skin that it was as if he was reaching out to touch some relique sacré- _holy relic_ -rather than a simple woman _._

“I wouldn’t dare, your highness,” Compton protested. Anne fought the urge to scream, belly twisting in a knot. Her chest felt like it was on fire as her heart started to pound. 

_Is this how a rabbit feels when a hawk dives toward it?_ Anne wondered. 

Henry put his hand on her shoulder. The one concealed by her hair. His thumb found the base of her neck and traced the vertebrae there. 

_His hands are huge,_ Anne thought. _God, Ce que vous faites au juste?-_ What one earth are you doing? _Touching me. He’s touching me._

“Then you’ve sold yourself to the Devil for your skill at cards.” _Cet homme_ chuckled.

 _He’s petting me comme une chat-like a cat._ The thought made her cunt twitch. _Like a chatton-kitten._

He traced his fingers up and down her neck, trailing them through her hair and down her shoulder. He played with the back of sa robe- _her dress-_ , laughing with Compton all the while. Anne found herself sagging into his fingers, leaning back and enjoying the touch. A kind of peace settled over her. She felt her cunt throb and her cheeks heat with arousal yet she had no desire à pourchasser- _to chase_ -pleasure. Waves of warmth settled over her, crashing and receding in time with the movement of his fingers.

 _What do you feel?_ Anne wondered. _Ceci?-This?_

She wanted to turn and look at him to see if his cheeks were as red as hers had to be. She wanted to spring out of her seat and slap him and tuck herself into his side. She wanted his hand on her lower back and his mouth on her neck and she wanted to see him in a loose shirt as he stumbled into bed with his culottes- _hose_ -hanging half délace- _untied-_ around his hips. She wondered if the curls between his cock were the same color as his hair. She wondered if his public hair went up to son nombril- _belly button_ -like Mary had said her husband’s did. 

Then Queen laughed at something the Ambassador said, waking Anne from her haze like a slap in the face. 

Anne looked around frantically and found that all eyes were focused on the Queen and the Ambassador. 

_So this is what it’s like to be la reine._ Anne thought. _Every move smooth and practiced and charmant, charmant, charmant-charming. She’s even charming when she prays._

Anne knew Compton and the King were concealed in the back of the room, behind the high backed couch she and Jane were sitting on, mais quelqu’un a voit certainement- _had certainly seen._ Quelqu’un a voit certainement Anne getting wet from being pet like a cat by the married King of England. 

Anne wondered if she ought to care. She wondered if her Uncle would hear sur le- _about it_ . She wondered if she was to be called into a family meeting to hear how she was to be whored out. She wondered what his fingers, his _charment doigts-lovely fingers_ , would feel like as they rubbed her clitoris or pushed into her wet cunt. She wondered if he’d use his mouth on her. She wondered if he was solely acting on the same impulse that made her eyes follow him about. With that thought, Anne rolled her shoulders, cracking her spine and shrugging his hand off.

Anne learned five days later de son père que- _from her father that-_ the King had allied with the French against the Holy Roman Empire. She fought the urge to cackle at the news. She failed miserably. 

“Anne, mind your tongue,” Thomas Boleyn chided her. 

“What?” Anne asked. “We Boleyn are on zee rise! Pourquoi je ne dois pas rire- _Why shouldn’t I laugh_ ? _”_

“Don’t count your eggs before they’ve hatched,” Thomas told her. “We’ll only know how many chickens we’ve got when autumn comes.”

“Yes,” Anne sneered, amusement turning to disgust at the thought. “Yes, we will.”

God willing, quand automne- _when fall_ -came Mary would be packed off to her husband’s bed, Norfolk would be dans le Tour de Londres and Anne, well, Anne couldn’t even picture where she’d be. Perhaps she’d be packed off to Ireland. 

Anne found James Butler, _son fiancé,_ with her brother. He was a comely enough man with a flat nose, thick beard and friendly blue eyes. He also smiled brightly whenever Anne se bénis avec s’attention- _blessed him with her attention._

“Darling brother!” Anne gave George a kiss on the cheek before turning to Butler and curtsying. She only looked up at Harry Percy through her eyelashes these days. “My lord.”

“Mistress Boleyn,” George all but laughed at her. She winked and he did laugh at her. George shook his head. “You’re in a bonny mood, lassie.”

Anne giggled at his mockery of an Irish accent and Butler thumbed his nose at George. That made her start howling and shake her head back and forth. 

“Good evening Mistress Boleyn,” Butler said in his perfect english accent. Anne wasn’t sure how that man could call himself an Irishman. Son accent était mieux que- _his accent was better than_ -George’s, but Anne supposed that after nine years in the Netherlands that was to be expected. To the rest of the court it looked like they were sharing some private joke. They were.

Butler was the joke and he knew it. 

C’est la blague d’Anne- _It was Anne’s joke-_ but her amusement ended with the arrival of one Mister Charles Brandon. He was a very handsome man, resembling Charles, Duc d’Alençon in his chin and nose, but yet he was not to her taste. Anne found him déficient- _deficient_ . Perhaps son goûts a change- _her tastes had changed-_ the moment the King had been struck by that lance. Perhaps it was because it was the one that nearly broke _that man’s_ skull. 

Anne slipped away from the two men as Brandon walked up. 

“Boleyn,” Brandon clapped George on the shoulder. “The King’s heading off.”

“Will ze Queen need to be expecting him?” Anne asked, disgusted at her own words. Anne knew her English grammar, thank you very much. 

“Hmm,” He shrugged. “We’re playing cards.”

“So non?” Anne responded. 

“He’ll go to her tomorrow night,” Butler assured her. Anne eyed him grumpily, not needing his assurances. 

Brandon shrugged. Anne raised an eyebrow at George who had no skill in schooling his face. 

They were going whoring. Anne was going to have a hangover. 

Next morning, a Monday, Anne begged off serving the Queen, something that her highness didn’t seem to care much about. She had a meeting with Wolsey that afternoon, _allegedly,_ that Anne would have murdered to be present during but instead she stumbled off to see a physician, purse in hand for a tonic with her hair loosely braided and hanging down her back. She barely made it halfway there before she came across Harry Percy. 

“My lady,” He said, taking off his cap and bowing to her.

“My lord,” Anne responded, her voice raspy. Anne looked down at her dress, noting that it was wrinkled, her bodice was twisted et trop de sa cotte était visible-and _far too much of her kirtle was showing._

“Are you well, Mistress Boleyn?” Harry asked. 

“I fear I suffer from anot’er’s eendulgance.” Anne told him. “I’m going to zee physician.”

“May I escort you?” Harry asked.

“What?” Anne asked.

“If you can pardon my forwardness, my lady,” Harry said. “You look as if you might faint and I do not believe that that would heal your ill health.”

“Yes.” Anne said. “You may.”

With that, she took his arm and they walked to Dr. Butts chambers together.

Dr. Butts was a man of middling stature with a large beard that was as black as Anne’s hair. He was a royal physician avec très petit statut, mais il était un homme intelligent et gentil- _with very little status but he was an intelligent and kind man._

“Dr. Butts,” Harry said before Anne nor le bon médecin- _the good doctor-_ could speak. “I am afraid Mistress Boleyn is in need of your services.”

“Your soulmate?” The physician asked knowingly. Anne nodded and unwound her arm from Harry Percy’s. 

“What’s he done now?” Dr. Butts asked as Anne sat herself down on the nearest chair. 

“Given me further proof zat ‘e eez a ‘abitual drunk.” Anne told him. 

“My god!” Harry Percy cried. “That is horrible.”

 _Est-votre âme soeur une religieuse?-Is your soulmate a nun?_ Anne thought bitterly.

“I’ve got some of that Highland Tonic left over from what I gave his majesty’s grooms,” Dr Butts said as he bustled about, trying to find wherever he’d put it. Anne tensed at the mention of _cette homme_ and then forced herself to relax. There was nothing for it. 

Harry Percy était gentil- _was kind_ -enough to walk her back to her room but when they passed by the Queen’s rooms Anne felt her gaze being slowly pulled away from the Earl’s son toward the Queen’s rooms. She flinched. There wasn’t music playing but Anne could hear the chattering as they walked by. 

“Do you think his highness is with the Queen?” Harry asked.

 _Avec la reine-with the Queen?_ Anne thought. _Après un nuit-after a night-with whores?_

“I’ve heard they're easy to cook for as they both love venison.” Harry commented. Anne looked back at him to see the fact that his cheeks were pink.

“I’ve ‘eard zey love chicken,” Anne responded and Harry’s face went as red as the King’s hair.

“Do you much like chicken?” Harry asked. 

“No,” Anne responded. “I’ve never found one that looked appetizing.” 

  
  
On the first of April Anne was in the Queen’s sitting room with Nan Gainesville and Jane Rochford après le dîner- _after dinner-_ listening to Madge read a poem she had written out loud.

“Do you think I should show it to Thomas Wyatt?” Madge asked eagerly. 

“Use _amour propre_ eenstead of ‘my respected body proper.’” Anne told Madge. “It means ze same zing and does not sound ridiculous.”

Mage pouted at her for a moment before pulling un bout de charbon de bois from her purse and making a note.

“What ees zat called in english?” Anne asked. 

“What?” Madge asked. 

“Le bout in your hand.” Anne responded.

“My charcoal?” Madge asked. 

“Zank you.” Anne said. 

“It’s a piece of charcoal.” Jane responded. At sixteen, Jane had long blonde hair that was so pale that Anne swore it était lueur- _it glowed-_ and a round, jolly face with pink cheeks et des lèvres pulpeuses- _succulent lips._ She was friendly but had a tongue like a knife and a taste for gossip that rivaled Anne’s own. She was also the only other lady in Catherine’s household that spoke passable French. Anne would have been obligated to like her even if she hadn’t been such wonderful company. 

“Merci,” Anne responded. “I always forget english.” 

Jane shrugged her shoulders.

“Well,” Nan said, “I for one think your poem’s very good, Madge.”

“It eez,” Anne replied hurriedly, eyeing the redhead. “You could be meilleur à Wyatt.”

“What?” Madge said flatly. She couldn’t have sounded less surprised. Anne felt her joues- _cheeks-_ heat up, regardless. 

“Better than Wyatt,” Jane translated. 

“Thank you,” Anne said.

“Why do you do that?” Nan asked. Her eyes were fixed upon Anne, annoyed. 

_She’s a pretty, exotic, French thing but soon her newness will wear off,_ Norfolk had said not four days ago. _Get this girl speaking proper English, for God’s sake Boleyn._

Only Anne’s brother’s hand on her shoulder had kept her from flying at the man.

“I was sent away when I was four,” Anne shrugged. “No one spoke eet.” 

With that the doors à la pièce- _to the_ _room_ -were flung open and a dozen hooded armed men rushed in. Anne sprung out of her seat along with the rest of the women and howled in mock fear. Of course, it was the bloody King and his seigneurs- _gentlemen_. 

The English had lovely swearwords.

 _Of all things,_ Anne thought, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes. _Does le bête think this is romantic?_

“My lords,” The Queen said bravely. 

_Comment est cette femme-how is this woman-not rolling on her belly laughing_? Anne wondered. 

“I mean you no harm my fair ladies,” The giant, hooded figure at the front of the party announced. “My name is Robin Hood.” 

“Why have you brought your Merry Men into my chambers, outlaw?” The Queen responded. 

“I simply want to find my Maid Marian,” The King bowed low as he spoke. 

_Right over bloody here,_ Anne thought sarcastically. A page boy had been kind enough to teach her that lovely word. Anne would have to thank him the next time she saw him. It was quickly becoming one of her favorites.

“Well,” The Queen responded with a theatrical flick of her hand at him in a clear dismissal. “I wish you luck but when your search has ended I would bid you to return to your woods.”

“As you wish, great lady,” The King responded. Then he bounded back towards the door, turned to la droît- _the right_ so that his back was to Anne. The other hooded men scattered amongst the women, laughing and flirting. Anne watched the King look amongst the first few ladies, then she saw his body spin around as if he was being pulled by some invisible force. 

“What a beauty you are, my lady.” Harry Percy said. Anne jumped, having been too busy watching Le Roi to notice his approach. 

“I am a maid, my lord.” Anne responded. “I will not keep you warm.” 

“I’m afraid that the memory of you will have me hot for the rest of my life, My Lady.” Harry responded. His cheeks turned a very pretty pink as he spoke. Anne smiled softly, tossed her dark hair back and lifted her chin.

“You don’t ‘ave a fire in your woods for zat?” Anne asked. Her head turned, as if commanded by some invisible force to her left, to see the King dallying with the new Seymour, not twenty paces from Anne. The hooded head slowly turned toward her and Anne forced herself to look away. It was like she was une chienne- _a dog-_ pulling against her leash. She wondered if _that man_ felt the same way. 

“Ahh,” Harry Percy laughed far too loudly. “What brings a French woman to this island? Do the men of your country have no taste in wives?”

 _Que-what-on Earth?_ Anne thought. _Avez perdu votre wits-have you lost your wits?_

“I am an English woman,” Anne responded so loudly it was near a shout, battling her accent avec chaque mot- _with every word_. “My father ez an ambassador.”

“Yet, those fools still had you within their grasp and released you, ma beautie.” Harry responded, completement inconscient- _completely oblivious_ -to the danger ses mots- _his words_ -posed to her. 

“Per’aps I found zem lacking,” Anne a repondu- _responded_. “Per’aps zey did not please me.”

Harry giggled and grinned at her, comme amusait par leur jeu- _as amused by_ _their game_ -as he could be. It made Anne smile in return. 

“You ‘ave a very lovely smile,” Anne l’a dit- _Anne told him_ . Then she felt her skin prickle in warning as her head turned of its own accord to see _cet homme_ marche vers elle- _that man walking towards her_ . Anne could see son visage assez bien- _see his face well enough-_ , even beneath his hood and the look in his eyes made the blood drain from her face. It was fixed but uncaring, like one looks à une ours- _at a bear-_ being led into the bating pit. 

“A French girl?” The King a demande- _asked_.

“An English one.” Anne responded. 

“You’d make an awful spy, Maîtresse,” The King elle a dit- _said to her_. “With an accent like that.”

“Zank you, your highness,” Anne dropped dans une reverence- _into a curtsy_. The King was fully glaring at her when she stood. Anne smiled, baring her teeth at him.

“Maîtresse _Bolaine_ ,” The King said. His face was unchanged as he turned away from her but his eyes remained fixed on her face for a moment. They were boiling with anger but Anne held his gaze before he forcibly pulled them away

 _Ces yeux était noisette; n’était pas verte-His eyes are hazel not brown,_ Anne realised. So were Harry Percy’s.

The King swept up to his Queen and bowed low. She looked up at him from her sewing.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” He said and tossed his hood back. “I must be the greatest fool in all of Christendom to not have recognized you.”

“You are not, my lord.” The Queen responded and sprung from her seat. “It is I who am the fool, for I should have known you by your very voice.”

The King dove down and kissed her, fully on the mouth. Anne watched them with pursed lips as the King grabbed her and pulled her to his body. Even from where Anne stood she could see that his massive hands nearly completely encircled la taille de sa femme- _his wife’s waist._ Anne was thin et une de la plus delicáte des femmes d'honneur- _and the most delicate Maids of Honor-_ but she doubted the King could touch her like that. 

_He’s hard for her,_ Anne thought. Perhaps she knew it by instinct. Perhaps she could feel it in her own body. Perhaps every other woman in the room knew it as well.

“Let us have a dance!!” The King ordered. 

Several of his Merry Men pulled instruments from beneath their cloaks and began to play. Anne didn’t take her eyes off the King and his Queen. They began a fast paced Gallion. 

“My lady?” Harry Percy asked, offering his hand. Anne took it. 

Harry Percy danced like he was a lawyer or a priest. Anne would have called him un marin- _a sailor-_ but she’d met too many to not know that they could jig to the point of exhaustion.

 _Enough of this,_ Anne thought as she curtsied to Percy. _Enough of this._

A few moments later, as she spun around Percy, her eyes were dragged through the rest of the dancers to the red haired giant of a King. He was looking at her. 

Anne’s neck turned hot. 

“Would you come with me to the garden, My Lady?” Harry asked her.

Anne did not got with him à le jardin- _to the_ _garden_. Instead she dallied with her brother after the dancing, laughing with her broadest smile and peering up at him through her lashes. She kept one hand on his upper arm and stood hardly as step away from her body. 

_Pretty French girl,_ Anne reminded herself, _Pretty, pretty, pretty French girl._

Ce travail. Ce travail toujours. _It works. It always works_.

George murmuring about the French alliance when Anne saw two flashes of red-gold hair from the corner of her eye. She watched _cet homme_ and his wife rush toward la chambre de la reine- _the Queen’s bedroom_ . Their eyes were fixed on eachother and leurs visages- _their faces-_ were alight with joy. 

Anne’s smile melted from her lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Highland Tonic is a mix a bit of corn starch, some buttermilk, heated it up, and seasoned it with salt and pepper commonly served in Scotland during the era. Sounds nasty.
> 
> This is what I get for not editing properly.
> 
> Not much history here, other than the fact that Henry VIII changed alliances between the French and the Holy Roman Empire when it suited him. Oh, He also did once visit Catherine dressed as Robin Hood with his Merry Men. Interestingly, I've never read about him doing anything like that with Anne (please correct me if I'm wrong). Then again, Catherine and Henry were noted to have had a playful, passionate romance at the start of their marriage while Anne and Henry certainly had a more combative relationship they were likely just as passionate before Henry had issues with erectile dysfunction (impotent, the guy with six wives was impotent).


	4. April 1512: Roses? Lapins?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which insults are exchanged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the two readers who left comments on the original version of this chapter! You guys are awesome!

The King came to his Queen every third night for the next three weeks but Anne felt his exhaustion _ every, single, putain de matin _ - _ mother fucking morning _ . She also got to watch comment sa visage de la reine- _ how the Queen’s face- _ had begun to flush in a way that only enhanced her beauty. Anne wanted to slap her yet elle n’a pas eu lui envie- _ she didn’t envy her _ . Who would want a husband that bedded you so vigorously in apology for buying whores? 

Not Anne, certainly. 

She quite liked Harry Percy,  _ merci beaucoup-thank you very much.  _

Anne liked how he showed his teeth when he smiled, she liked his soft hands and she liked his slow, loping gait, especially when they walked together. They went out so often that Anne swore she knew Eltham’s gardens better than any in the Louvre but she  _ did not  _ like that. 

“What do you ‘ave in Nort’umberland?” Anne asked. “Roses? Lapins?”

“Lapins?” He asked.

“You’ve lived in Calais for two years,” Anne responded. “I met you een Paris. Rabbits.”

“I haven’t spoken French since I returned.” Harry shrugged. 

“No one ‘ere does.” Anne said. 

“Well,” Harry smiled at her. “At least we have French dresses.”

“You’re ‘at is Spanish,” Anne reminded him. 

“Yet you say it suits me,” Harry said.

“It does.” Anne acknowledged. “Mais, il n’assortit pas avec ton doublet- _ it doesn’t match your doublet _ .”

“I’ll take your advice on that matter, my lady,” Harry responded. “You are much more skilled at such matters than I am.”

“Skill can be learned.” Anne told him. 

“I’ve got many to learn.” Harry admitted, earnestly. It was un vrai- _ true _ -kind of admission from him but Anne would still call it  _ faux  _ if it came from any other man. A façade of intimacy without truly offering oneself. La douleur de paranoïa qui fait en la Hollande et aiguisait en France- _ the twinge of paranoia that was made in the Netherlands and honed in France _ -pushed a practiced, false smile onto her face. 

_ What do you want?  _ Anne la Reine had asked Anne Boleyn nearly a decade ago.

_ Quoi?  _ Anne had responded. 

_ What do you want?  _ Anne de la Bretagne responded.  _ Un épouse gentil? Un épouse beaux? Un épouse rich? L’amour? Tu ne désires pas un épouse?-A kind husband? A handsome husband? A rich husband? Love? No spouse? _

_ Knowledge,  _ A nine year old Anne had said. 

_ D’un épouse?  _ La Reine elle demande- _ From a spouse? The Queen had asked her. _

_ Respect.  _ Anne had amended her answer.  _ Je désire le pouvoir et le respect-I want power and respect. L’amour aussi-Love as well. _

_ Tu est sage-You are wise,  _ Anne de la Bretagne had said.  _ Power can be a woman’s only solace in this world. C’est mon-It’s mine. _

_ Merci-thank you,  _ Anne had responded. 

_ Power is fickle,  _ The Queen had continued.  _ Power won’t keep you warm at night. It will exhaust you but exhilarate you beyond anything you can imagine. In order to hold it you must balance on the thinnest of threads. I was born to power and lands, my title, my bloodlines have not even saved me from its loss. You have no such luxury. You cannot afford a single misstep. _

_ Et l’amour-and love?  _ Anne had asked. 

_ If you’re lucky you’ll have it,  _ Her Queen had told her.  _ But power doesn’t have the right to beat you or bed your servants. Neither does respect.  _

“Perhaps you could tutor me, Anne,” Harry Percy asked. 

“In what?” Anne responded. 

“Whatever my lady pleases.” Harry said. He sounded hopeful. 

“What do you ‘ave to learn?” Anne asked. 

“I’m not very good at dancing,” Harry said. 

“Eez zat what you want to learn?” Anne responded. 

“I’ve never liked dancing,” Harry told her. Elle a cet connu- _ she knew that.  _ “But you do and I want to like what you like.”

“What do  _ you  _ want?” Anne finally got around to ask him. 

“I mean you no offense, my lady.” Harry spluttered. “I simply enjoy your company and I do hope you enjoy mine.”

“I do, ‘Arry,” Anne replied. “I prefer you 

_ Here we are,  _ Anne thought.  _ You want me. I want you.  _

_ Je désire le pouvoir.  _

I want power. 

“What have you been reading of late?” Percy asked her. Anne shook her head.

“Ze Odyssey,” She told him.

“Again?” He laughed.

“Oui,” Anne grumbled. 

“For someone who owns a full trunk of books, I’d think you’d read more,” Percy teased. “Perhaps you’d borrow one of mine?”

“Tell me what you ‘ave.” Anne replied, thinking of the four layers of books lying three down and five across in her little crate. Then she felt her heart drop. 

Anne went digging in that trunk after dinner, lifting stacks out to get her to the very bottom. Tucked in the far right corner was a worn book of history. 

In France, the Mistress of the Maids had owned it but Anne had taken the liberty of snatching it from her when the court was in progress. 

_ La Chronique française de Londres. _

She dug through it searching out one of the shortest stories, at barely two pages long, in its pages. 

The Fair Rosamond had had red hair so long that she could trod upon it and eyes of the clearest green. Her cheeks were plump and glowed with the touch of youth and Henry II marveled at her from the moment he saw her. 

Fair Rosamond, with her pink lips and handsome waist. Fair Rosamond with her fleet, dancing feet. Fair Rosemond, quick to smile with her pearl teeth. Fair Rosamond, draped in white before her lover.

The King cut his hand at the sight of her, blood staining the ground and every man present marveled at how Fair Rosamond cried out. She threw herself before the King and bound his wound with her hair, proclaiming Henry II to be her only rightful Lord for all to hear with such passions that the King took her, with great joy, into his arms and would never lie with another. They lived in great happiness for but a month before Eleanor, the Queen, discovered her rival. She was a great and terrible lady who would suffer no challenge to her husband’s affections. His Majesty knew this and so caused a great maze to be built in his favorite park to hid his beloved soul within. Fair Rosamond took up a habitation in it’s very depths and gifted the King a string made of her shimmering red hair so that he could come to her in the night. They lived in just as great happiness as before the Queen discovered their tricks. She snuck into the maze to find Fair Rosamond awaiting the King. 

The cruel Queen shorn Fair Rosamund’s hair from her head with her own hands and then dragged her from the maze. The Queen threw Fair Rosamond to her men and they tore her white robes from her body and strung her up between two fires as if she were a felled doe. 

But before Fair Rosamond could be cooked, the Queen pulled her down with her own hand and stabbed the King’s soul with her own dagger. 

_ Le Roi sentait chaque seconde de sa morte _ -the King would have felt every second of her death, Anne remembered telling Mary with a laugh. She’d watched sa- _ her _ -eight year old, blonde jolie fille- _ pretty blond sister _ -quaked in horror. She hadn’t been laughing when Mary woke up screaming that night. Instead, Anne elle a entrient- _ Anne hugged her- _ and cooed to her until she fell back asleep. 

Half a month later Mary’s letter arrived with an unexpected little, handsomely embroidered handkerchief in a lovely little pouch.  _ Praise God,  _ her brilliant, brilliant sister’s little gift would make Anne’s slight of the hand a thousand times easier. When Anne called a family meeting, elle a aimé l’apparence sur le visage de Norfolk- _ she loved the look on Norfolk’s face.  _ He wore the plus gorgon scowl- _ most petulant scowl- _ that Anne had ever seen. Anne gave him her prettiest French smile and head tilt. That made his scowl plus mal- _ worse.  _

“What’ve you done?” Norfolk snapped as Anne pulled out Mary’s letter.

“Ensured our succès.” Anne responded. “‘E is with zee Queen often enough zat eet is only a matter of time so I ‘ad Mary write to ‘im.”

“Give it here.” Norfolk grunted.

“Can you read it, Anne?” Thomas Boleyn cut off his beau-frère- _ brother in law.  _

“Yes, father,” Anne said, completely ignoring the child of a Duke sitting next to her. 

_ Your highness,  _ Mary had written. 

_ I beg your pardon for this letter but I must write to you. My eyes ache for the sight of you, my ears bleed for the lack of the sound of your voice….. _

_ “What?!”  _ George asked. 

“Je ne sais jamais avec elle- _ I never know with her.”  _ Anne responded, pursing her thin lips. Norfolk grunted in disapproval but Anne ignored him. 

_...and I cannot bear another day without the heat of your presence warming my cheeks.  _

“This needs to be rewritten,” Elizabeth Boleyn said. “Anne, fix it. Lord knows your handwriting is close enough to hers.”

“No it’s not,” Anne responded. 

“I’m sorry?” Anne’s mother barked. “I taught you both your letters myself.”

_ Pour deux semaine au maximum-for two months at most,  _ Anne thought bitterly.  _ Avant mon quatrième jour de naissance-before my fourth birthday. _

“Bess,” Thomas said quietly. “Her handwriting’s changed.”

_ I offer you this humble gift as a symbol of my undying affections. It is a rose in bloom, your symbol, your highness, blossoming as I hope your love will blossom for me. _

_ I do beg some word of how you do.  _

_ My heart doth desire your heartily.  _

_ Mary Boleyn _

“She should have written Carey,” Anne’s father commented. “Remind him he has competition.”

“How’re you getting that disaster to the King?” Norfolk asked. 

“He’ll like it.” George responded. “It’s genuine and he likes truthfulness more than anything.”

“No ‘e doesn’t.” Anne said. “He likes the illusion. ‘E eez a King. ‘E ‘ates zee truth when it is not kind to him.”

“It often is, girl.” Norfolk said. 

“Of course, ‘e is zee King.” Anne responded. 

“You’re right.” Norfolk acknowledged. “Don’t be stupid enough to go saying that again.”

“Now,” Elizabeth Boleyn interjected. “How are we getting this to the King?”

“George, of course,” Anne told her mother. “He’s in the King’s ‘ouse’old for a raison.”

_ Franchement, je n’aboie pas qu’intelligent.- Honestly, I’m not that smart.  _ Anne thought. 

Anne had to take the pouch back to her room as there was apparently no wax in Norfolk’s office to reseal Mary’s letter. Of course there wasn’t, Anne had snatched it from his desk.

Unfortunately, she didn’t arrive pas maltraité- _ unmolested.  _ She hurried through the hallways, the sounds of her talons aiguilles- _ stilettos _ -echoing off the walls. It was late, most likely only an hour before midnight. Anne had missed most of the dancing to sit in Norfolk’s office and discuss wild, unrealistic, hopeful plots of Mary’s success. 

Norfolk had finalement- _ finally- _ spoken of removing the Queen. His plan was half formed and needed plus de chance qu’Anne- _ more luck than Anne- _ would if she wanted to fly. Anne knew better than to dream so wildly as of yet. She was more likely to become Countess of Northumberland than sister to the Queen. 

_ Peut-être très probable-perhaps very likely,  _ Anne thought, remembering Percy’s hands on her waist and he spun her around in Volta. He truly had no talent for dancing. As she mused, Anne saw the orange glow of a torch light up the corner in front of her a second too late. There was a petit couloir- _ little hallway- _ just behind her ou elle a pu cacher- _ could have hid- _ just behind her but there was no time to go sprinting back to it. The clack of her heels would have given her away anyways. 

_ Putain,  _ She thought.  _ Fuck.  _

Sure enough Sir William Compton appeared around the corner, standing tall, as if  _ this  _ role was the most formal of his duties.  _ Cet homme  _ was walking just behind him, talking to Charles Brandon with his red hair visible even over Compton’s torch. Caught between the flickering light of the fire and the shadow of the black hallway it looked like a smear of blood. Anne swore her heart stopped in her chest. She tucked herself against the wall and swept into a curtsey, jaw clenched, hands gripping onto her skirt. 

_ So this is what une lupe-a wolf-feels like quand elle est devient la proie-when she becomes the prey,  _ Anne thought.  _ I want to rip his throat out. I want to rip his bloody throat out.  _

“What lover has you out at such an hour, Mistress Boleyn?” The King of England asked as the men approached her. He was dressed in only a robe and baggy chemise de nuit.

_ Shift?  _ Anne thought.  _ Shirt. A shirt of night. Nightshirt.  _

“I don’t ‘ave one,” Anne squeaked out. “My family ‘ad dinner.”

“So late?” Brandon teased. “What do you Boleyn’s dine on? Horse flesh?”

“I am afraid you would know more about such cheap meat zan I do.” Anne snapped back, straightening right up and meeting Brandon’s amused gaze with a glare. Anne wanted to spit in his face as he walked by. She did not get to.  _ Cet homme  _ stopped directly in front of Anne and took two steps so he was right in front of her. She curtsied again, looking down the deep collar of his nightshirt before she managed to wrench her eyes away. He wore it open, complètement dénouer- _ completely untied _ , to show his poitrine- _ chest- _ and the upper part of his stomach. His skin was as pale as his face and she could see the prominent definition of chest muscles. The collar was ruffled and had been sewn with the most intricate blackwork Anne had ever seen. 

“Get up,”  _ Cet homme  _ ordered. As she did he reached for her chest. Anne jumped and brought her hand up, between their bodies, comme un bouclier- _ like a shield.  _

“God, woman,” Henry snapped, smacking her palm aside with the back of his massive hand. “It’s not like I’m going to shove my hand down your dress. What’s this?”

He grabbed the chain of her necklace; a heavy, ornate pendant on a silver chain worn so long beneath the collar of her dress that the metal had been warmed by her body heat. He lifted it and wound the pearl chain around one of his fingers so he could see the emerald center and the pearl drop hanging beneath it. 

“An expensive gift,” Cet homme mused. “Your lover must have bankrupted himself for this.”

“Ze  _ Queen of France _ gave it to me,” Anne spluttered out.  __

“Still an expensive gift,” The King continued. 

He pulled her necklace toward him, but not so far that Anne was dragged along with it.  _ Christ,  _ they were already so close that Anne could smell the lavender scent de son bain passe- _ from his last bath.  _ He looked over the pendant closely, clearly admiring the magnificent craftsmanship. Anne found herself in the position to admire the bridge of his nose and the slight curl to his hair as it fell about his forehead. He had a straight nose with a handsome bridge and petits narines- _ small nostrils _ -that fit very prettily between his high pommettes- _ cheekbones.  _ There were a few fading freckles leftover de sa jeunesse- _ from his youth.  _

“You must have been quite the favorite,” The King said. 

“She was generous with us all,” Anne responded and reached to pluck it from his hand. He grabbed her wrist in response. His hand completely dwarfed her wrist, his fingers covered it, threatening to crush her bones in his grip. He looked at her with a half smile, chin tilted down in a manner that made his eyes as cold as Anne had ever seen them. She pulled her shoulders back, stood as tall as her slight body would allow her and held his gaze. 

_ Vous n’allez pas me blessé-you won’t hurt me,  _ Anne thought.  _ For you’ll feel every single second if you do.  _

_ Cette homme _ turned her hand so that into her paume- _ palm _ -was facing upwards and rubbed his thumb along her pulse point. Anne jumped at the unexpected, gentle touch. He was petting her again. Henry made a vague shushing sound, comme il calmait un cheval effrayé- _ like he was calming a frightened horse.  _ He placed his free hand gently beneath hers, dropped the pendant into her palm, then released her wrist. The King cradled her hand between both of his and eyed the pendant in her palm. 

_ Tu le desires?-Do you want it?  _ Anne thought.  _ Rip it off my neck. _

“What have you done to your fingers?” He asked, looking up at her with her mouth hanging slightly open but eyes still hard.

“I pricked myself sewing.” Anne said. 

“A hundred times?” The King asked. Then she smirked at her. 

“A thousand,” Anne responded. 

“I pity the man who gets his shirts from you,” The King said. Anne felt relief crash over her body, uncurling the knock in her belly and relaxing her spine. She knew this game comme au dos de sa main- _ the back of her own hand.  _

“Don’t waste it, your ‘ighness,” Anne replied. “‘E will be a very lucky man.”

“So your betrothed hasn’t enjoyed your attentions?” The King asked.

“Oh,’E ‘as not been so fortunate,” Anne assured him and carefully lifted her hand from his palms. She curled her fingers loosely around the necklace and clutched it to her chest. 

“I’m sure you’ll be an expensive prospect,” Charles Brandon  _ helpfully  _ interjected. Anne only spared him half a glance but the King looked at him from over his shoulder. Compton jerked his head to the side, mais  _ cet homme  _ a retourné à Anne- _ but that man returned to Anne.  _

“Then,” He murmured. “I think he is  _ indeed  _ a lucky man.”

With a soft smile, the King of England turned away from her and made to walk off.

“As are you,” Anne called after him, furious. “Her ‘ighness will be relieved to see you returned, unharmed, to ‘er bed after so long away.”

“What did you just say?” The King asked, snapping his around, looking half shocked. 

“I said zatt your wife will be relieved to ‘ave you back een ‘er bed, un’armed,” Anne responded, not bothering to even try and mask her accent. “After your nights out _whoring._ ”

Anne took a step forward and propped a hand on her hip, looking her amê soeur- _ soulmate _ -up and down.

“If you are un’harmed,  _ zat eez, _ ” Anne continued. “Zough, you wouldn’t know yet wouldn’t you?”

The King grinned awkwardly at Brandon and then back at Anne, opening his mouth. 

“Though, I will pray you don’t bring any ‘arm to ‘er,” Anne said, curtsied, turned around and walked away. 

“I beg your pardon?”  _ Cet homme _ shouted after her.

_ Fuck you,  _ Anne thought.

When Anne returned to her room she slammed the door behind her. 

“ _ Fuck,”  _ She shreaked. “ _ Fuck you!” _

Anne all but doubled over on herself, gasping for breath with her eyes burning with tears. Anne threw Mary’s little pouch with sa petite lettre et son petit mouchoir- _ her little letter and her little handkerchief- _ onto the bed. She wanted to slap that jumped up arse of a man across the face. Unfortunately for Anne, that would be the equivalent of smacking herself. 

_ And treason _ , she remembered.  _ It would have also been treason. _

Anne stormed around her rooms, banging open the doors of sa commode et son bureau- _ her chest of drawers and her desk- _ to find her book of prayers and her letter. She couldn’t find it. 

Anne’s chest seized up with a flash of panic. She shook her head comme une chienne avec les puces- _ like a dog with fleas- _ before flying towards her nightstand and wrenching open the drawer. If Norfolk knew she’d already have pris sa punition- _ taken her punishment.  _ The man had no patience. 

_ Que le fuck _ ? Anne thought.  __

She flew back to her commode- _ chest of drawers- _ and started tearing her clothes out frantically. Then she groped around to her own purse and pulled her  _ damn prayer book out _ . 

_ Bloody enfer,  _ Anne thought. She yanked Mary’s letter out of the pouch and tossed it onto her desk. 

Before she sealed her own letter and placed it into Mary’s purse she signed her name. 

_ Loyal servant,  _ Anne smiled down at the page. _To myself perhaps._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historically, a King going to the Queen's bedchambers was a massive procession not the King and one or two of his best buddies.
> 
> Edit: One of the literal first parts I wrote for this fic was the Fair Rosamund part. Frankly, I might even say that the myth about Rosamund Clifford's death inspired this story. Historically, Rosamund Clifford was the mistress of Henry II. She was not murdered by Eleanor of Aquitaine who was actually imprisoned for treason (aka family drama or Henry II's dickishness) when she died. I've had a thousand and ten issues figuring out where to put it, especially as I don't want to shoe horn it in when it starts to becomes incredibaly important.


	5. May 1512: A Late Spring Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a birthday is celebrated and the Seymours are insulted.

George took Anne’s letter et le mouchoir de Mary- _and Mary’s handkerchief-_ to the King’s rooms the very next evening. Anne wondered if it would interrupt their planned night of whoring for the King left the feast early as was his habit when he went to bordels- _brothels._ She’d had the pleasure of Harry Percy’s compagnie pour tout la soirée- _company for the entire evening_ -as they danced about. He truly was a horrendous dancer but he did it with so little shame for her that she found she began to admire his offbeat clumsy steps because they were _for her. They were a declaration of dedication to her._

A meaningless one certainly but it still made her heart warm. She could say she was beginning to adore this man, but that itself was dangerous. Just before Anne’s evening ended, she found it was a struggle not to glance to her left, which told her _cette homme_ was dallying amongst his court instead of sitting in state with his wife. _He_ was becoming increasingly dangerous. Anne knew that. 

She figured that out when a Volta began to play and she felt une main énorme sur son bras- _a massive hand on her arm._ Anne nearly jumped out of her skin. She whipped around and found _cette homme_ peering down at her with pursed lips. 

“Mistress Boleyn,” He said and extended his hand. Anne tightened her grip on Harry Percy’s arm. 

“Yes, your ‘ighness?” Anne responded, unwilling to il a offert un centemetrè- _unwilling to offer him a centimeter._

“Would you dance with me?” The King asked. 

_That’s better,_ Anne thought. _Fils de pute._

“Your highness,” Anne said. She gave Harry Percy her gentlest smile and peered at him through her lashes as she released his arm. Then she turned her gaze onto the King of England as she took his hand. His hand was as it had been the past two times it had touched her; massive; chaud- _warm_ -and far too firm. He pulled her quickly to the dancefloor but not in a manner that could be considered rough, which annoyed Anne. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have an incredibly handsome nose?” Henry asked as he released her hand. 

_No,_ Anne thought. She was flustered enough to know better than to attempt a response so she simply curtsied and twirled around him in time with the music. The English Volta était un dansé horrible- _was a horrible danse_ . In the French and Italian Volta Anne would be scooped up by a man’s hands placed on the center of her back and beneath her knees before being set back up on her feet. _The English Volta_ saw her picked straight up off the ground by her waist, tossed up into the air, caught and then plonked back onto her feet. C’était comme s’elle n’portait jamais les poignards- _it was as if she never wore stilettos._

Anne took a deep breath as she darted toward the King, forcing her jaw to relax as she moved fluidly through the motions of the dance. Then _cet homme_ picked her up. Anne felt nothing but worry gnaw at her belly as the King began his four step spin, smiling up at her. Anne shut her eyes, counting down until the moment she would be dropped but then she felt herself being lowered slowly down one beat too soon. She opened her eyes to see the King’s worried face looking back at her. His eyes were expressif de façon étonnante- _startlingly expressive-_ and he knew how to use them very well. He brought her down gently but let his hands linger on her waist for half a beat before she spun away. 

“Mistress Boleyn,” He murmured as she darted into his hands for the second time. “Est-ce que mon visage offensez-vous tellement- _Does my face offend you so?”_

“Your arrogance does,” Anne responded as he eased her back to the ground and she rushed away from him yet again. 

“Is it arrogance if my boasts are true?” _Cette homme_ responded when she swung back into his grip for the third time. 

“If you are boasting zan eet ees not true.” Anne assured him, with a slight smile as he held her up in the air. 

“Would you care to find out if my arrogance is well earned?” The King asked her as he put her back on her feet. Anne glared at him as she stepped away for the final turn of the dance. Watching his smirk fade from his eyes sent a twinge of disappointment through her chest but she darkened her glare even further and flew back into his arms.

“ _Zis,_ ” Anne spat. _“_ Ees not ‘ow you woo a woman.”

Henry pulled her to his body before he put her down, staring down at her with eyes that Anne could only describe as hot. They were close enough that her breasts were pressed against his chest and elle pu sentir son haleine sur sa front- _she could feel his breath on her forehead._ It smelled like wine. 

_Bloody fucking hell,_ Anne thought. _Twat._

That was another wonderful English swear word. She would have to give Harry Percy a kiss for teaching it to her. 

It was later that night as she sat up reading that she had a sudden realization. 

_Cet homme had never dropped her to the ground._

The next week of Anne’s life was the most nerve wracking one she remembered. She walked about sur les coquilles d’oeuf dans ses poignards- _on eggshells in her stilettos-_ yet nothing happened. Her father wasn’t dragged to the Tower, her brother wasn’t tackled par _cet homme_ in a fit of rage, Norfolk didn’t corner her in his office, her mother didn’t call her into her rooms to scream at her. Nothing happened, other than the King started visiting his wife nightly.

Anne wondered if it would be vulgar to congratulate the Queen. She’d save it pour quand ils auraient annoncé sa grossesse- _for when they announced her pregnancy._

Anne saw the King every time he visited the Queen and elle remarquait comme il avait du mal à faire ne regardait elle pas- _she took note of how he struggled not to look at her._ In response, Anne stared at him. Whenever his eyes were dragged away from his wife and toward her she made sure to meet his gaze with a small, perpetually amused smile. En fait, she found it resting upon her face more and more. 

_Amused,_ Anne mused as she watched the King and his wife walk about the gardens. _But not laughing._

Anne became increasingly amused as May et le pleuvoir de l’été arrivait finalement- _and the spring rain finally arrived._

“C’est horrible- _it’s horrible,_ ” Anne complained to Jane Rochford after mass on the first Sunday of the month. “Ce pluie en la France, mais ne comme jamais ça _-it rained in France but not like this_.”

“Le pleuvoir est en retard- _the rain is late,”_ Jane had shrugged. “And that makes it worse.”

“Penserais-tu que le ferait mieux- _you would think that it would make it better.”_ Anne responded. With that she fell silent as the King led Catalina d’Aragona out of the chapel. They truly were an odd couple. She was a tiny thing, plus delicat qu’Anne- _more delicate than Anne_ , and very short. 

Anne was called to undress her that evening, replacing Marie de Salinas who had just left court, heavily pregnant with her first child. Queen was regal even in her own nudity but she didn’t wear a corset, something that made Anne levait un sourcil parce qu’elle n’avait pas vomissements dans les matins passés- _raise an eyebrow because she hadn’t been throwing up in the morning_ -and Anne couldn’t imagine not wearing a corset unless she was pregnant _._ The Queen did have a fat, little, belly on her skinny frame that spoke to her past dead children but it was not the rounded curve caused by a child. . 

As Anne removed Catalina d'Aragona’s small black slippers with their little cloth of gold flowers. They had to be expensive as Anne’s stilettos and those were made par seulement un homme dans la totalité de la France- _by only one man in the entirety of France._ Anne la Reine had been generous with all her women, outfitting them to the heights of la mode italienne et française- _Italian and French fashion._ Le fait qu’Anne ait à peu près dix robes plus des autres dames d’honneur- _the fact that Anne had ten or so more dresses than the other woman-_ was due to her former mistress. 

Catalina d’Aragona did not wear hose or stockings but Anne supposed that as the Queen she could afford to sweat through her shoes. 

_What a waste,_ Anne thought. _These lovely shoes would be thrown out by the start of août-August._

The lack of socks also made the Spanish Queen’s feet stink. Anne wiped them down carefully, half-listening to the Spanish murmuring going on around her. 

“Wash my calves as well, Mistress Boleyn.” The Queen ordered, causing Anne to jump in fright. 

“Of course, your highness,” She did not look up at the older woman as she spoke, keeping her eyes to the floor as she pushed up the Queen’s smock to reveal, pale calves that were even skinnier than hers and thin, émancié knees.

 _Émancié?_ Anne wondered. _Emaciated._

Anne could feel every bone and groove of the Queen’s knees as she washed them. Anne was by means a generously endowed woman, bordering just on the right side of skinny to make her small breasts and hips appear pulpeuse- _curvaceous-_ but she had not been this thin since she was fifteen. 

She’d washed Anne la Reine before, who would give Anne un oreiller pour ses genoux- _a pillow for her knees_ -and allow Anne to begin whatever conversation seemed good to her. 

“You are a talented dancer, Mistress Boleyn,” Catalina d’Aragona said. It seemed that this Queen made whatever conversation seemed good to _her._

“You are too kind, your highness,” Anne replied. 

_Did you catch it?_ Anne thought as the Queen called for a glass of wine. _Avez-vous besoin de se soûler-or do you have to get drunk-to bed cet homme?_ Anne couldn’t imagine him being anything but a demanding lover. 

“Is the volta common in France?” The Queen inquired. 

_Ah,_ Anne thought. _C’est parti-here we go._

“Yes,” Anne told her, looking up at the little Spaniard. She kept her face as calm as she could “Her highness, the Queen, ‘as eensisted all her ladies learn it because she loves eet so much.”

“No wonder you are so skilled.” Catalina d’Aragona commented. She looked down at Anne with the perfect mimicry of genuine interest. 

“Do you like ze Volta, your ‘ighness?” Anne asked with a soft smile. The Spaniard wouldn’t dance it. 

_Too scandalous,_ _pah,_ Anne had thought when she heard that at her first feast at court. _Je pouvais pari tout d’argent de ma famille que n'a-elle pas le don pour la volta-I would bet all of my family’s money that she doesn’t have the skill for the volta._

“No, Mistress Boleyn,” The Queen responded. “I don’t.”

 _So you think I’m his whore?_ Anne wondered. She pitied the Queen, she truly did. Catalina d’Aragona had to see threats dans chaque ombre; dans chaque rire; dans chaque geste- _in every shadow; in every laugh; in every gesture_. That was no way to live.

Ç'a été un vendredi- _it was a Friday-_ when Anne went to her parents’ rooms for dinner. She hadn’t been summoned but rather had asked. Her father had nodded before hurrying away, un porte-documents- _portfolio_ -under his arms. Anne wondered why he had even agreed to allow Mary to bed the King. He’d gone from l’ambassadeur à la Holland à l’ambassadeur à la France- _the ambassador to the Netherlands to the ambassador to France-_ to an advisor to the King on the latest treaty with the Holy Roman Empire. He and Anne’s mother were set to leave for Austria in October, after the summer of Mary’s whoredom. Thomas Boleyn would reap nothing if Mary had fallen pregnant by the King. It would have been Norfolk, _Norfolk, Norfolk, Norfolk_ who would be standing there, cap in hand, ready to receive his pimp’s portion of the spoils. Perhaps he would lose the appointment. Perhaps it would be stripped from him at the last moment and they would all be tossed from court.

 _Au moins je vais voir Hever-at least I’ll see Hever,_ Anne thought. She was let into her parent’s small sitting room the moment she knocked to find her father sat at the head of his table already picking at un poulet- _a chicken._

“Anne,” Her mother said. “You’re late.”

“You said you’d see me at a quarter past noon.” Anne replied flatly as she walked past Elizabeth Boleyn. “Eet ees a quarter past noon.”

 _What did I expect?_ Anne thought, automatically repressing the faintest twinge of disappointment that still rose in her belly after almost dix-neuf années dans le monde- _nineteen years in the world._

She gave her father a kiss on the top of his balding head and took her seat next to him. 

“Any news from the Queen’s household?” Her father asked. 

“I’ll c’eck ‘er sheets tomorrow, she’d due for her blood,” Anne sighed. 

“Good,” Her father responded. “Now, tell me, what have you been reading lately?”

“The Odyssey again,” Anne replied. “Several ozzer women ‘ave different translations so it ees a bit of fun.”

Her father hummed lowly at that looking at her and then at her mother, his eyes far away. Thomas Boleyn had a habit of humming when he needed a moment to think. It made him seem a bit slow to some but not Anne. Her father had an ability to trick others unlike anything Anne had ever seen. George had seen fit to tell her they owned everything to Norfolk when she arrived at court. Anne had choked on her wine as she fell into a laughing fit so severe she nearly cried. 

_What?_ George had asked her. _Anne it’s true. Norfolk’s backed father since before he wedded mother. He’s boosted our rise to power. He got me my position on the King’s household for God’s sake._

Her brother had not spent enough time at Thomas Boleyn’s side to see that il était un homme plus capable que Norfolk- _that he was a more capable man than Norfolk._ Perhaps it was the Duke’s highhandedness that brought her family under his spell. Perhaps Anne wasn't due to the fact that he’d been nothing but a rich, mildly intelligent, rude, greedy pimp since she met him. 

_“_ Is the new Seymour girl one of them?” Her father asked. Anne sipped her wine slowly before responding.

 _“_ No,” She said. “The girl can barely read.”

That was not exactly true. Jane Seymour could read but not well. 

“I want you to keep an eye on her Anne,” Her father told her. 

“Why?” Anne spluttered out. 

“We can’t let a Seymour girl get in the King’s bed while Mary’s gone.” Her father said, face as serious as Anne had ever seen. Anne smiled at him, leaning back in her chair in amused shock. 

_Est-ce qu’un un blague-is this a joke?_ Anne wondered. 

“‘E won’t even give ‘er a second glance,” She said. 

“She’s beautiful, Anne.” Her mother informed her. “More beautiful than Mary.”

“And?” Anne laughed. So was Jane Rochford and a good deal smarter than both her sister and that Seymour girl combined. 

“Have you forgotten that the Seymours would seek to cast us down from our hard earned position?” Her father asked. Anne cocked her head to the side.

 _I’m more of a threat to you than those brutes,_ Anne thought, stomach starting to churn. 

“So would every ozzer family in court.” Anne reminded him. “A family of jumped up knight’s withs sons less educated zan both of _your daughters_ can do little against us.”

“They are our rivals, Anne.” Her father snapped. “And you will treat them as such or I will send you from court.”

Anne opened her mouth to respond. 

“Do as your father says, girl.” Her mother barked. Anne glared at her only to find that glare reflected back at her. She looked away. 

_Qu’est-ce que feriez vous si je vous dis que je suis l'âme soeur du Roi?-What would you do if I told you I am the King's soulmate?_ Anne wondered. _What would you do if I told you what I’d done? What if I begged you to send me back to France? What if I fucked him and made him impotent? What would you do then?_

The next time Anne saw her parents was only two days later. She saw them en passant, mais pour son dix-neuvième anniversaire, sa mère elle a accompagné à la couturière- _in passing but for her nineteenth birthday, her mother accompanied her to the seamstress._ Elizabeth Boleyn was nothing if not an elegant woman and one of the most handsome in the entirety of the court when her mouth wasn’t pulled into a pinch as it seemed so often to be with Anne. 

_Howard women,_ Anne thought grumpily. _What a bunch of liars we are._

“Perhaps that pink for my daughter,” Anne’s mother suggested, pointing to a pink so dark it was nearly red. “It will suit her mouth.”

Les lèvres d’Anne était rose pâle sur un bon jour- _Anne’s lips were a pale pink on a good day._

“Per’aps zis one,” Anne picked up the peach fabric and rubbed it between her fingers. It made the little, invisible spots where she’d pricked her fingers sewing throb but the fabric was soft. “I like eet better.”

“Well made but it’s too pale for your hair.” Elizabeth Boleyn responded, taking the cloth from Anne's fingers. 

“If eet is tailored wiz a ‘igh neck and I wear it with white French sleeves eet will suit my eyes,” Anne told her mother. Elizabeth Boleyn looked at her daughter with a raised eyebrow for a moment.

“How much is it?” She asked the coutirière- _seamstress_. 

“Twelve farthings,” The woman replied. “The pink one is a pound.”

“Do you ‘ave any grey cloth?” Anne asked. “Or yellow?”

“I am not buying you three dresses.” Her mother responded. 

She bought Anne three dresses.

_Of course she did,_ Anne thought bitterly that evening, even as elle a lambiné avec Harry Percy- _dallied with Harry Percy._

They were tucked in a corridor just off the feasting hall. Anne’s lips were still tingling from the kisses he’d given her. She was not resting against his body as she would have done, hidden in the high hedges of the garden. Au lieu de- _instead_ , she stood in front of him, her body barely a pace away from his.

“Turn around,” He murmured to her, voice low and filled with the promise of pleasure. Anne did. Her hair was tied up as was her habit. It had taken her nearly an hour to do that morning but she was an early riser. She’d began by parting her dark hair down the center, portioning it twisting the front back to give her hairline some volume and pinning that. She pulled the back portion into a sloppy bun and braided the front portions down to the bottom of her hair in a crown braid. She’d put her hairnet on and braided the rest around it. It made for a handsome picture, exposing her elegant neck. 

Harry Percy placed a necklace on her throat and Anne smiled down at it. It was a dull gold with three silver gems, encadré en l’or- _framed in gold_ , hanging from it and two of the same jewels placed between them. 

“It eez beautiful,” Anne told him. She turned and kissed him on the side of his mouth. “Zank you.” 

“I swear you grow beautiful with every year you age,” Harry replied, smiling his lovely smile.

“Zank you for your kindness,” Anne laughed. She felt a sudden urge to look away but ignored it, assuming the King was simply passing by, dallying amongst his court. 

“It is no kindness,” Harry responded, taking her hand. “I was in awe of you from the moment I saw you.”

“You could not bring yourself to say anything over the past six years?” Anne asked, placing her free hand over his. He had a scholar’s fingers, coated in rings, and well cared for nails. 

“It was not your birthday, my darling Anne.” Harry responded seriously. “And I did not have the courage.” 

“You have known me for too long to fear me,” Anne replied, leaned in and gave him a quick kiss.

“You would be surprised just how many men lose their stomachs at the sight of a beautiful woman,” A familiar voice said behind her. 

Anne whipped around and dropped into a curtsy, heart hammering in her chest and hands starting to shake. 

_Fucking bastard,_ Anne thought as she looked up at _cet homme_. 

“I can assure you zat I know,” Anne replied as she straightened up.

“Your highness,” Harry began. Anne bit her tongue to keep from shushing him. “I apologize for not seeing you.” 

_Imbécile,_ Anne thought. _Fool. Yes that’s the word. What are you doing?_

“It is no matter, Lord Percy.” The King replied, looking away from Anne for the first time. “I can understand the loss of sight that comes when entangled in a woman.” 

“Thank you, your highness,” Harry said, blushing a fetching pink.

“Unfortunately,” The King responded. “I’ll be stealing Mistress Boleyn away for the moment.”

Anne raised an eyebrow at him and elle s’est haunché- _put all her weight on one hip_ , tapping her free toe on the stone floor, before responding.

“Does the lady have any say in this at all?” She inquired. 

“I am simply in need of a dancing partner, Mistress Boleyn,” _Cet homme_ responded and held out his hand. “And have decided to choose the best.”

Anne made herself wink at Harry over her shoulder only to see son visage pâle- _his pale face-_ looking back at her. The King tucked her hand into his arm before leading her away. 

“Do you truly zink flattery will get you anywhere?” Anne all but squeaked, voice betraying her panic.

“No,” The King responded. “Not with a woman so enamoured with another man.”

“Am I supposed to be enamoured wiz you?” Anne replied, tightening her grip on his forearm. Feeling her own touch through his body was an awful yet comforting feeling. It calmed her head and forced air back into her lungs. 

“Why wouldn’t you be?” The King chuckled as they reentered the feasting hall. Anne cocked her head and raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Come now, there must be something you like about me.” The King murmured in a surprising display of mock agony. His eyes were soft, fixed upon her and alight with amusement. Anne had to acknowledge that _that_ was annoyingly attractive.

 _So this is what Mary loved about you,_ Anne thought. She looked him de haut en bas- _up and down_ -before she fixed her gaze on his face. Anne had long perfected her ability to look down on someone qui était plus grand qu’elle- _that was taller than her-_ but for him she tried to soften her glare just enough to convey her displeasure. 

Anne was certain it hadn’t worked. 

“Why would you think zat?” Anne responded as he led her onto the dance floor. It was a Pavan. 

_Thank Jesus,_ Anne thought.

“Oh, my good lady, you wound me.” The King responded. 

“Yet you are not bleeding,” Anne informed him as they bounced around each other.

“Mon coeur, Mistress,” _Cet homme_ told her with a half smile. “You have wounded my heart.”

“And here I zought zat your ‘eart was een the gentle keeping of your wife.” Anne gave him a proper, toothy smile before she swayed away from him on the dancefloor.

Anne was an excellent swayer. When she walked, her thin hips swayed in a manner that pulled every man’s eye to ses jupes et sa taille- _her shirts and her waist_ . Anne knew that well enough. Elle s'entraînait assez à devenir un maîtresse de ce mouvement- _she had practiced enough to become a master of the movement._ It was most evident when Anne was not in her favorite poignards- _stilettos,_ a fact she thought was rather unfortunate. She also would not wear her poignards à l’extérieur dans les jardins- _outside in the gardens-_ on what seemed like the sole sunny day in May _._

This, while enhancing her walk, did make her nearly a head shorter than James Butler who she had finally decided was worthy of her presence. 

“I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you again,” Butler told her as they strolled dans le jardin boueuse- _in the muddy garden._

“Per’aps,” Anne responded vaguely. “I’ll be wed by ze time you get back.”

“I’d prefer not to come back.” He grunted.

“Do you miss your wild Ireland?” Anne asked with a sardonic smile.

“No,” Butler responded. “I miss my father.”

“You ‘ave lived wiz ‘im for most of your life, no?” Anne asked even though she knew the answer. 

“Yes,” He said as Anne pulled her skirt out of the way of a particularly foul looking bit of mud. “And my mother.”

“I _am_ sorry for her loss.” Anne told him. “And I will miss you.”

“I know Anne,” Her now former fiancée responded. “I know you will.”

Anne knew he didn’t believe her. 

Anne also knew she was an incredibly good sneak with a full purse of coins. It was a misty Thursday morning when Anne s’est baladé à vue les lavandières- _strolled to see the laundresses._ Half of the court had half a dozen of the women on their registre du personnel- _payroll-_ but Anne was actively following the woman _holding_ Catherine’s sheets in her arms. There were also a dozen pages scurrying through the hallways comme les rats- _like rats_ -preventing Anne from collecting her prize. She smiled and nodded politely to each and every one of them, blood boiling. Her heels made their usual, soothing, clic-clac sound as she hurried along. 

“What brings you back to the hallways, Mistress Boleyn?” A not particularly booming voice called out from behind her. Anne whipped around and curtsied. He was dressed in a dark green doublet, a hat and a simple furred jacket. Anne thought it rather flattered his hair. She could admit to herself that she liked his hair. C’est le plus beaux rouge et or- _it was the prettiest red and gold._

“Your ‘ighness,” She spat out. He did not look even mildly offended, clearly growing accustomed to Anne vitriol. 

_Mother fucker,_ Anne thought. _Fils de putain._

“Tell me, little creeper,” _Cet homme_ said. “Why did you flee your nest today?”

“Am I not allowed to walk about your palace, your ‘ighness?” Anne replied, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground and letting the venom seep into her voice. 

“You are,” The King conceded. “And you’re in quite the hurry. Where are you going?”

“To the laundry room,” Anne began her response truthfully but then twisted her tongue ever so slightly. “I need to fetch my skirts as I have unfortunately bloodied mine.”

She watched his brow knit and his eyes dart around in confusion before his face blanched in realisation of what she’d said. Anne fought the urge to cackle. 

“Very good, Mistress Boleyn,” He replied, inclined his head and walked away. Anne cackled quietly and took off after la lavandière- _laundress._ She managed to catch her around a corner and grasp her arm. 

“I would speak to you, Mistress,” Anne said quickly and led la lavandière around a corner and into a linen closet. She glanced around her and saw a few people eyeing the two women but found she could care less. The state of the Queen’s sheets would be all over court within the next trois heures- _three hours._ Anne left the door cracked half open so that a slit of light illuminated the little room.

“My lady?” The woman asked, looking down at her feet.

“Two pounds,” Anne said. “For a look at the sheets, Mistress.”

“Three,” The woman responded, looking up at Anne. She looked displeased, likely at the rough handling. 

“Two and a ‘alf,” Anne replied, knowing very well that that was all she had in her pouch.

“Done,” The lavandière replied and Anne handed over the money. 

The Queen’s sheets were free of blood. 

“It is joyous isn’t it?” Harry Percy asked her cinq jours depuis James Butler a parti pour l’enterrement de sa mère- _and five days since James Butler had left for his mother’s funeral_ , two hours after she’d heard the Queen’s sheets were free of blood for the second month and three weeks after her letter had been sent in Mary’s little gift. 

Anne had dark circles under her eyes from her lack of sleep. She’d taken to biting her nails down to the quick. Her hands had started shaking when she prayed as if she were such a mighty sinner she deserved to be excommunicated. 

She was a sinner but she hadn’t considered herself to yet be such a grand one. 

_Perhaps he burned it_ , Anne thought one night as she paced wildly about her bedroom in the dark. _Peut-être ne désirait-il pas à avait de nouvelles de ma soeur-perhaps he didn’t want to hear from her. Perhaps he could not have cared less for her._

“Yes,” Anne responded. 

“Have you told anyone else?” Harry responded. 

“No, not yet,” Anne said. “I zought you ought to know first, my darling.”

“I am glad for the news,” Harry told her. “Begetting an heir is the duty and the pleasure of every man and it will be a great relief for his highness when the Queen falls pregnant.” 

Anne noticed that he was looking at her oddly but she couldn’t care less en ce moment- _at the moment_. 

“If she ‘as conceived, we must pray that ‘er highness bears a healzzy child.” Anne told him.

“The duty of all good Englishmen,” Harry mused with a pretty smile upon his face.

“And all good Eenglish woman,” Anne reminded him. 

“And you are amongst the best of them, my lady,” Harry responded. Anne looked away, throat closing up and heart racing in her chest like a rabbit away from a hawk. 

_I am the King of England’s âme soeur._ She thought hysterically, trying not to laugh. _That makes me the best of them doesn’t it? No, I am the worst. Look at cet homme. Look at him. A glorious young King. That’s what they call him. But look at him. Look at what he will do to my family._

“Thank you,” Anne murmurs, trying to play her panic off as embarrassment. “ _Thank you.”_

There was a loud clap of thunder from outside that Anne swore shook the roof above her head. 

“When is zis going to end?” Anne wondered out loud.

She wasn’t sure if she was referring to the weather or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think the Volta showed up until the 1520's and there wasn't two types but it serves it's purpose in the story. According to one Jane Dormer the Duchess of Feria, a contempory of Anne, she was "not yet 29 years of age" when she was executed (murdered). That makes her birthday in late May or during the summer. This information comes from tumblr but when I google the full quote an article shows up behind a paywall so I think it's good?  
> Also, I have no idea why Gregory had Mary say that the Seymours were the Boleyns' "main rival for power and prestige" in the Other Boleyn Girl. I set the book down in disgust when I read that.  
> Anne shares that disgust.  
> Finally, Henry looks at Anne and is just like "who the fuck are you and why do I want you to pay attention to me?"  
> Comments are my caffeine supplement so let me know what you think!


	6. May 1512: Leave me to mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne: "Oh no he's Hot."
> 
> Henry VIII: *Is Henry VIII*
> 
> Anne: "Nevermind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Cleaned up some spelling and changed one line of dialogue

Mary was set to rejoin court when they reached Eltham in late June, which gave Anne another environ un moins de la paix-a _month or so of peace_ . Si _ceci_ aurait appelé la paix- _if this could be called peace-_ that is. Everywhere she turned, she saw the King. He appeared in the hallways; he appeared in the gardens; he appeared behind her, during feasts and bent down to put his mouth to her ear and invite her onto the dancefloor; he appeared when she was in the stables, readying for les premières chasses de l’été- _the first hunts of the summer_ . Il est apparu encore quand Anne a visitée la lavandière pour ses nouvelles robes- _he even appeared when Anne visited the seamstress for her new dresses._

“Mistress Boleyn,” _Cet homme_ said. Anne bit back a groan as she curtsied. He could be pleasant enough company when he wasn’t being a _menace_ . Agacement, bête, épine dans son pied- _menace, idiot, thorn in her side._ Her distaste for his company must have been visible as his eyes went cold. Anne cocked her head to the side. 

_Go ahead and look,_ She thought. _You’ll never guess who I really am._

“What brings you here today, your highness?” Anne asked.

“I’m here to look over a new doublet.” He said as he walked right past her and lifted the yellow kirtle she had ordered off the table. It had a circular french collar and was made of lighter fabric, lacking the structure of English kirtles as well as the boxy, lower cut neckline. 

“You have curious tastes.” _Cet homme_ commented. 

“As do you, your highness.” Anne replied. “After all, zere is a raison you are called the best dressed King een Europe.”

“I thought it was ‘the handsomest.’” The King raised an eyebrow. Anne held his gaze, thoroughly unimpressed. 

“Handsome is a matter of opinion, your ‘ighness.” Anne replied. “Each woman has a different one.”

“So does each man,” _Cet homme_ said. Anne braced herself for an insult similar to the one she had received the night Mary’s letter had arrived.

“I’d see you in this.” The King responded. It was an order. 

_Comment choquant-how shocking,_ Anne thought dryly, not finding it within herself to be surprised. 

“I will make sure to wear it this evening, your highness.” Anne informed him. Anne went to scoop her dresses up from the table only to find his hand gently grasping her arm. His nails had grown long. He was wearing rings avec les pierres précieuse bleus uniquement- _with only blue gems-_ on his fingers. They drew her eyes to the veins on the back of his hand. 

“Or you could put it on now,” The King replied, nodding his head toward the screen tucked in the back of the room. Anne glanced quickly at the nearest coutirière- _seamstress,_ who was pretending to be sewing away. She fought the urge to shift back and forth where she was standing. 

This would be all over court by supper. 

“I will not undress in _ze same room_ as a man who is not my husband,” Anne informed him. 

“Very honorable, Mistress Boleyn,” The King replied. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “He must be grateful for your _loyalty._ ”

“As you must be for zat of _your wife_ ,” Anne said, smiling as sweetly as she could. “I am sure she will love your new doublet.”

“May I have your opinion on it?” The King asked. His eyes softened as he spoke, completely ignoring her jab. Anne looked him over for a moment. There was none of the false pleading, false hope she could guess he was a master of wearing on his face.

 _But has he ever pleaded for anything?_ Anne wondered. His head was cocked to the side dans une copie d’Anne- _in an imitation of Anne. Oh, he’s pretended to be a helpless, petit fils-little boy-before but actually pleaded?_ _No, never._

“You are rather odd, aren’t you, little creeper?” He asked. Anne allowed her displeasure to show on her face.

“Odd is another word for unique, your ‘ighness.” Anne reminded him. “Somezing zat could describe you as well.”

“My dear Mistress Boleyn, I’d hazard a guess that that’s the kindest thing to have ever left your mouth,” The King responded. 

“You are the sole King of England after all,” Anne continued as if she hadn’t heard him. Henry looked away and laughed. _Actually laughed._

“I walked right into that one didn’t I?” He asked, smiling easily at her. _Cet homme_ had an incredibly handsome smile. He turned the left side of his mouth up ever so slightly higher than the right, making him look rather carefree. His eyes remained fixed on her, jovial and alight. 

_So,_ Anne thought. _This is why Mary loves you._

Were Anne a lesser, more sheltered woman, she would allow la vitesse envirant du plaisir- _the heady rush of pleasure_ -that came from his attention to go to her head.

He was just a man.

She had once made a Duke look at her like that. She made Harry Percy look at her like that _chaque jour-every day._

“Ze door _was_ open,” Anne replied. He shook his head and smiled even more broadly. 

“I find myself glad to have stepped through it,” The King said. Anne tilted her chin up and smiled softly back at him. 

“I believe you wanted to show me your doublet.” Anne reminded him and picked up her dresses. He led quickly to his tailor, chattering the entire time. 

_I shouldn’t have done that,_ Anne thought as she looked at the pourpoint- _doublet. I should have just left._

“A handsome color.” Anne commented. It was a muted brown avec fil d’or- _gold thread-_ detailing. The pattern changed and thickened along the collar and down the seam, making a stripe down the center. The collar was velvet. 

“Will you highness be wearing it with a ‘igh necked shirt?” Anne asked. 

“No,” The King responded after a moment. “I don’t think I will.”

It would délaver- _wash out-_ his already pale his shin out to the point it was comme blanc comme l’os- _as white as bone_. 

_Or maybe pull some color out of his cheeks if he tanned during the summer,_ Anne thought. Anne pointed one finger at the collar.

“Get rid of the velvet.” Anne said. “Use a ‘igh collared shirt with lacework like on your jaune. _Yellow_ , your yellow doublet. The one with the flowers.”

 _Pretty, pretty fille française-french girl._ Anne thought, grumpily. _Pretty, pretty, pretty French girl._

Anne hated English words for colors. 

“Why?” The King asked. 

“Zat collar suits you..” Anne shrugged. 

He wore the doublet avec les fleurs jaunes- _with the yellow flowers-_ to the feast that evening. Anne did not wear her yellow dress. She wanted to make a few amendments to the bustline herself. Anne wore the peach one instead and spent the night dancing with Harry Percy. She wore his necklace, after all, so it was only fitting. It was after Anne left the dancefloor, having nearly rolled her ankle dancing the Volta when a hand grabbed her arm. Anne whipped around only to find her brother grinning down at her. 

_Oh no,_ Anne thought. _What now?_

“Darling sister,” George grinned. “Might I have a word?”

Anne curtsied slightly to Harry and followed her brother off the floor and out of the hall and up the stairs and into a corner.

 _“What?”_ Anne snapped at him.

“The King wants to see you tonight,” George told her. Anne should not have been as shocked as she was. This had been a long time coming. 

_Petite bête-little idiot,_ She scolded herself. Anne dug her nails into her palms to keep from screaming in rage.

 _I should go,_ Anne thought. _I should go and lie with him, watch the chaos unfold when he can’t bed his wife or his whores and then slap him across the face when he realises who I am._

“Tell ‘im to go get fucked in the arse,” Anne responded. George looked taken aback, mouth falling ever so slightly open. Her brother had heard her rage before. He’d heard her as mad as a stable cat, spitting and hissing at anything and everything. He’d never heard her swear like that before.

 _Dit-il_ _je suis son âme soeur-tell him I’m his soulmate,_ Anne thought. _Tell him he’s a coward. Tell him I want to fuck him. Tell him I’m stupider than a toddler. Tell him that he’s just put my neck in Norfolk’s noose. Tell him to stop thinking with his cock._

“Tell ‘im zat I’m a maid,” Anne replied. “And zat I ‘ave sworn my maidenhead to my ‘usband.”

“Uhhh,” George asked her. “So do I tell him that you want to be banished from court or do I tell him you're pious?”

“I don’t care George,” Anne responded, suddenly exhausted. She shook her head back and forth and pushed past her brother. “I truly do not care.”

She went to her bedroom, took her shoes off, unpinned her hair, laid down on her bed and enjoyed the first full night’s sleep she’d had since she arrived in England.

The next morning Anne woke up utterly exhausted with a raging hangover. Unfortunately for her, she happened across the King on her way to Mass first thing in the morning. Fortunately for him, the entire court was between the two of them. 

She didn’t know what she would have done if she’d happened upon him in a back hallway or, god forbid, _alone._ Anne sat through the church service, with her hands clasped in front of her, half listening to the Bishop. She prayed for a chasm to open beneath their feet and drag them both to hell. Perhaps then Anne could tell the truth and have un court instant de la paix- _a moment’s peace._

The King valued honesty or at least the illusion of it. Anne knew that very well. He valued beauty, grace, intelligence and wit. Anne had four out of five of those things. 

_Why wouldn’t he want me?_ She wondered. _After I’ve proven myself loyal with my actions more so than my words._

The letter, _Norfolk, Mary,_ had been a greater opportunity than most people in this court would ever have to prove their loyalty. Their _quality_. That would explain this nonsense. 

That would explain why he had decided he wanted to _fuck_ her. 

Except that wasn’t really true and Anne knew it but some part of her wished she didn’t. Seld-delusion had never been one of Anne's many skills. 

He wanted her, Anne knew that now. Elle ça devrait connaître avant le nuit passe- _she should have known that before last night._ Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to imagine it. 

It’s not comme s’elle désirait à lui séduire- _as if she wanted to seduce him._ Elle désirait Harry Percy- _she wanted Harry Percy-_ with his soft smiles, gentle hands and clumsy dancing. 

A sick feeling welled up in her stomach as Mass ended. 

Anne managed to keep her eyes straight ahead as he walked by, successfully battling her instinct to fix her gaze on him. He did not succeed, head turning ever so slightly to look at her. 

She wanted _cet homme_ more. 

_So this is what it’s like to have a soulmate,_ Anne thought, rather miserably. _How awful._

Seulement une heure après messe- _only an hour after Mass-_ Norfolk called her into his office alone _._ He was sitting at his desk, rummaging through paperwork. Anne’s heart pounded in her throat as she approached him.

“Sit down,” He said. Anne sat down across from him but he kept scribbling away. Anne leaned her elbow on the arm of her chair, propped her chin up on her knuckles and read what he was writing.

“King isn’t even going to see your petition, Uncle. It’s going straight to Wolsey’s waste bin,” Anne informed him. “Put your pen down.”

Norfolk looked up at her. 

“You’ve got a tongue like a bitter spinster.” Norfolk elected to state the obvious, something that only served to lower her estimation of his intelligence impossibly further.

“Well, I wasn’t aware you were planning on proposing, Uncle.” Anne replied.

“I’d rather sodomize the Devil himself.” Norfolk grunted and put his pen down. 

“An excellent idea,” Anne drawled, leaning back into her chair. “Might I watch?”

Norfolk’s face turned red with rage and he stared directly at her. Anne smiled back at him, tilted her chin up and looked him over. He was a well dressed man with greying hair, le même nez comme Anne et un médaillon voyant suspendait de son cou- _the same nose as Anne and a gaudy medal hanging from his neck._ Most women would find him somewhat impressive if not quite to their tastes. Too old, too arrogant, much too angry but powerful. 

He also looked in the best of health. 

Anne le désirait à tomber raide mort- _wanted him to drop dead._

“The King asked for you last night,” Norfolk informed her. “You refused him.”

“Yes,” Anne replied. “I _am_ aware zat happened.”

“Listen here, girl.” Norfolk growled. “The King of England holds the fate of everyone in this country in the palm of his hand. I understand things may be a little confusing for a _frenchwoman_ such as yourself but that also includes you.”

That word made Anne’s eyes widen in shock. 

_Why that?_ She wondered. _Why would you choose that as an insult? No, not an insult. A threat._

“Now…” 

“Is that what ‘e calls me?” Anne cut him off. 

“Don’t interrupt!” Norfolk barked. 

“Does the King call me a _frenchwoman_?” Anne asked. Norfolk blinked at her like a startled puppy. 

It made her think of Mary. 

“Yes,” Norfolk responded slowly. “He has.”

Anne looked away, pinched the bridge of her nose and slouched back into her seat. Norfolk looked down at her breasts. Anne pulled her pendant out from beneath her neckline and played with it, biting her tongue to keep from screeching at him.

“‘E wants me because ‘e finds me-qu’est-ce que le mot? Exotique _.”_ Anne mused, remembering Norfolk's words. “Yes, exotic. But my _newness_ will soon, mmmh, _wear off_ and that leaves you nowhere.”

“I’m sure you can dream up some way to hold him,” Norfolk replied. 

“Why bozzer?” Anne laughed. “It’ll be Mary he keeps, not me, and it takes more zan one night to make a child.”

“And your brother told him you were _pious_ ,” Norfolk sounded amused. 

“We all ‘ave sins to see to Uncle,” Anne replied dismissively. “You tend to yours and leave me to mine.”

Anne was dallying in the garden, playing hide and seek with Harry Percy in the maze. She was the seeker, trotting about, her little slippers collecting dew from the morning grass. Anne Boleyn never ran. It was disgracieux- _unladylike_. It was the hour before breakfast but Anne doubted that ils étaient les seulements amants qui jouaient dans le jardin- _they were the only lovers who were playing in the garden._

She walked around a corner to find just how right she was. 

“George!” Anne squaked.

George turned away from _Jane Rochford_ , giving her a quick kiss on the forehead before he did so. 

“Good Morning, Annamarie,” He said. “Enjoying the fresh air?”

“Not as much as you are,” Anne recovered herself, forcing a giggle from her mouth. There was a small, foul bubble of jealousy that floated up from her belly and sought to lodge itself in her throat. Anne swallowed it back down. 

She winked at her friend and scurried off. 

Five or so minutes later, Anne took a left turn, acting on a hunch and walked right into a brown doublet. It was beautifully detailed with a pattern stitched in cloth of gold that changed around the collar.

“You’ve caught me!” Harry Percy laughed cheerily. He was holding his jacket under one arm. It had covered that _damned doublet._

Anne smiled and gave him a kiss. 

The King wore _his_ new brown doublet with the cloth of gold thread the day before the court left Westminister for Eltham. _God have mercy on her soul,_ Anne wished she’d bedded him. She wished she’d gone to his bed and tied their bodies together en la même manière juste que leurs âmes cráient- _in the same way their souls were created._

He hah had his haïr cut, something Anne found she didn’t like one bit. When it was longer he couldn’t hide how it curled at the front and was slightly wavy at the back, despite how much he tried to flatte it down. When it was short he somehow, miraculously, managed to brush it straight. When it was longer it made him look slightly older, but when it was short and parted to the side he looked George's age. It actually was the same haircut as her brother's.

Anne supposed that was part of the reason she didn't like it. 

_Cet homme_ found her perched on a low wall, reading her book of prayers or rather staring down at it and occasionally flipping a page. 

“Mistress Boleyn,” _Cet homme_ said in greeting. 

“Your highness,” Anne hopped up and curtsied to him. 

“What’s this?” The King held out his hand, clearly expecting Anne to hand him her book. 

“What’s what, your highness?” Anne replied.

“Your book.” The King said. “Give it here.”

Anne gave him her book. He looked at it for a moment and handed it back to her. 

“Highness,” Compton murmured from behind him. Anne looked at him, followed his gaze and saw Wolsey walking toward them. 

“Thank you, Will.” The King said. “It’s beautifully made, Mistress Boleyn, as most of your things seem to be.”

“I appreciate beauty, your highness,” Anne replied. “That is no sin.”

“Greed is,” The King informed her, smiling rather sardonically. “Was that a gift from your former mistress?”

“She was very _generous_ with us,” Anne reminded him, holding the book over her belly. It was as much of an act of defense as an attempt to calm her nerves.

“And very pious, or so I’m told.” The King said. “You do her credit, Mistress Boleyn.”

“Yet none match her highness _, the Queen,_ in 'er devotion to God.” Anne informed him. “She is a credit to you.”

With that, Anne curtsied and walked away. 

The King danced the Volta with her that evening. He was close enough to l’ivresse complètement qu’Anne pouvait sentir l’alcool sur son souffle de cinq pieds d’ici- _complete intoxication that Anne could smell the alcohol on his breath from five feet away._

“Such a godly woman,” He mused as he scooped her up. He held her close to his body while all of the other women on the dancefloor were lifted high in the air and twirled about. She took a moment to admire the pale line of his throat and how the blackwork on the collar of his shirt made his skin impossibly paler. The coller framed his jaw, highlighting his sharp bones before pulling her eyes down to where his Adam's apple sat. Anne had never noticed it before but that was no surprise as it was barely noticeable. “And you dance like a succubus.”

“Miriam the prophet danced,” Anne replied, her face as turning as red as her dress.

“To glorify God.” _Cet homme_ reminded her. She managed to get out of his grip for only a few moments before the music brought her right back toward him. “You dance like you want a man between your thighs tonight.”

Anne openly glared at him as he lifted her for the final time. When he brought her to the ground, Anne stomped on his foot with her heel, making him hiss in pain. Anne danced away as if nothing had happened, repressing her own flinch. She was much used to having aching feet. Les talons aiguille- _stilettos-_ were made for beauty rather than comfort. 

“Says ze man who could take a woman, critique her performance in front of her husband and have 'im apologize for her failures.” Anne snapped back, her temper flaring, even as she stepped away from him, her heels clacking as she spun about. 

“Do you think that lowly of me?” The King asked, his voice high, offended and loud. He looked wounded. 

“Drunk men do as drunk men please.” Anne replied as he spun her back into the air one final time. “And Kings do as Kings please.”

“You do then,” He murmured as the dance ended. “I am sorry for that, little creeper.”

That made Anne’s jaw drop onto her chest as he turned and walked away from her. She barely remembered to say goodnight to a thoroughly uncomfortable looking Harry Percy before she went to bed. 

She didn’t sleep at all.

  
Anne had been used to spending weeks at a time on horseback in France, riding across the countryside with Anne de la Bretagne during the spring and riding with the court during the summer progress. Her thighs ached by the time Eltham appeared on the horizon after only a day on horseback. Anne was riding alongside Jane Rochford, chattering away.

“It’s pretty,” Anne said as they trotted toward it.

“It was the King and his sisters' nursery,” Jane replied. 

“A rather large one,” Anne said. She imagined _cet homme_ as a little boy, running around with his long baby curls beneath a bonnet after the Queen of Scotland or shouting at his tutors in a fury. Perhaps playing cards and winning with a handful of kings. 

“Not for Kings, apparently.” Jane shrugged. He had had a new wing added the previous year.

“He didn’t send the New Years Prince here, did ‘e?” Anne asked. She’d never heard that poor baby spoken about before. Jane didn’t look at Anne when she replied.

“No he didn’t,” Jane spoke softly. “He was supposed to go somewhere in Wales but he didn’t make it long enough.”

“A great loss for their highnesses.” Anne commented.

“You’re a twin aren’t you?” Jane asked, raising an eyebrow.

“George told you that didn’t he?” Anne responded, fingers tightening around her reines. 

“Yes,” Jane admitted. 

“He was born holding my ankle.” Anne told her. “My mother says he had red hair but my father said I did too when I was a baby.” 

“George wants to name his first son Henry,” Jane said. “For him.”

 _You’ll ‘ave to tell the King it’s for him._ Anne thought.

“What do you want to name your first son?” Anne asked.

“For his father,” Jane replied. She felt her head being tugged to her right.

 _What are you doing this far back in the baggage train?_ Anne wondered. 

“Smart,” Anne said. “My brother would be flattered.”

“Any man would be flattered.” Jane snorted. “Oh, beloved husband. You are the epitome of manhood; the idealization of knighthood made flesh and I would have had no one else sire him. I beseech you, give our son your name!”

There was a choking sound and a bark of laughter from just next to them. Anne looked over to see a set of wide, shocked hazel eyes looked at her and Jane. Charles Brandon looked fit to fall off his horse, head thrown so far back that his hat was slipping off his head.

“Your highness,” Anne giggled, glancing over at a red faced, mortified Jane. “Lovely weather we’re having today isn’t it?”

“Would it be improper if I said you were lovelier?” The King asked. 

“Yes,” Anne hummed. “I am much more handsome than the weather. Jane ‘ere is the _lovelier_ one.”

 _Cet homme_ blinked at her, clearly confused.

“I’m trying to compliment you.” He responded. Anne looked away, suddenly embarrassed by her bad manners.

“I can tell,” She said. “Thank you.”

“It’s every man’s duty to compliment you, Mistress Boleyn,” The King responded. “For you are an exceptional woman.”

“All women are exceptional, your ‘ighness,” Anne informed him. “Zough many do not see it.”

“Well,” The King replied petulantly. “I’ll call you hypnotic then.”

“How about ‘interesting’?” Jane piped up. “She’ll like that.”

Anne glared at her snickering best friend and raised an eyebrow. 

_Vraiment?- Really?_ Anne thought.

“Sublime,” The King responded. Anne's face turned as red as his hair and she could tell by his self-satisfied smirk that that was exactly what he wanted. “Like lightning in thunderclouds.”

“Does that make you a forest fire?” Anne managed to splutter out. 

_He was an incredibly destructive man,_ Anne thought. _It was a miracle he hadn’t set her family on fire yet._

“I have been set alight by you,” _Cet homme_ replied. Anne glared at him. He was preening.

This peacock was _preening._

“How many other bolts of lightning have struck you, your highness?” Anne inquired curiously. 

Charles Brandon swore through his laughter as his hat fell off his head. 

Anne’s cuticles were split and bleeding by dinner. Jane had stayed close to her for the rest of the day. Anne knew the light blonde haired girl well enough to know when she was worried. _Cet homme_ had been brazen earlier that day. Anne firmly kept her gaze off the dias where the King and Queen were sitting and on her food. She’d barely eaten anything at all. 

Jane elbowed her hard in warning, making Anne’s eyes snapped up to see the King standing not more than ten paces from her, speaking to a golden haired young woman. She bobbed her head at something he said and took his hand. As he helped her up from her seat, Anne could see by the grace of her movements she was a well trained dancer. 

As he led her to the center of the hall he looked over his shoulder at Anne. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry VIII and his siblings (except Arthur) regularly resided at Eltham during their youth and it's a popular theory that Elizabeth of York was heavily involved in their upbringing. Catherine and Henry had a boy born on January 1st of 1511 who died on February 22 of that year.  
> In the Other Boleyn Girl I think it was George who told Mary that the King had sent him to ask to come visit (have sex with) him and Anne refused citing either her piety or purity.  
> Additionally, the Other Boleyn Girl has A LOT of creepy incest themes (it is very telling that Mary, of all people, can figure out that George's relationship with her and Anne is innapropriete to the extreme). Due to the fact that Mary is the most boring narrator in existence I spent far too much time wondering (a) whether Anne realised George was really perverted, (b) how she felt about it and (c) if the actual act of incest was only in Mary's imagination in the book. In the 2003 movie based on the book, I know they have Mary suggest George sleep with Anne. Gross.  
> The twin thing and the creepiness that comes with it are included in part due to the Other Boleyn Girl's influence but mostly because the direct translation of "soulmate" from Spanish and Italien into English is "soul twin" and in French it's "soul sister" and I like that coincidence far too much not to work it in somehow.  
> Yes, the conversation between Anne and Norfolk is based off of an Olenna and Cersei scene because Olenna Tyrell is a goddess and this version of Anne would totally try to get adopted by her (who am I kidding everyone wants to be adopted by Olenna Tyrell).  
> In the chapter Henry utterly fails at communication, realises he's f'ed up and backs off.  
> Don't worry his literal first line in the next chapter is basically: "Anne! Anne! Hi Anne! Pay attention to me!"  
> Comments are my caffeine supplement so let me know what you think!


	7. June 1512: The eye of Diana herself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which much is learned and quail are shot.

Her name was Bessie Blount, she was a very pretty girl, only a few months younger than Anne, friendly, jolly, well liked and Anne pitied her from the very depths of her soul. The Queen watched her like a cat watches a mouse as she danced, walked, rode and even sat at the little Spaniard’s feet, sewing away. _Cet homme_ had just given her two new yellow dresses both cut in la mode française- _the French style-_ and Anne thought Catalina d’Aragona might rip them from her back. It was in the narrowing of the Queen’s wide eyes.

The Spaniard was never rude, nor red faced with anger, if anything she was more pleasant than ever yet the massive orbs she called eyes would narrow ever so slightly when they fell on Bessie Blount. 

Anne watched the two of them. She saw how the Spaniard called Blount to thread her needles, claiming she couldn’t quite see the hole. She saw how the Queen often released Blount from her service and wondered if the woman realized that that only enabled the blond to dally with _cet homme_ plus frequemment- _more frequently._ Then Anne watched as Catalina d’Aragona ordered Blount to walk directly behind her when they went to Mass and smiled to herself.

 _Well played, your highness,_ She thought. _Very well played._

Anne wondered if the King could feel guilt. Probably but then again he was God’s anointed sovereign and his will was that of God. Such wonderful justifications for to wallow in every sort of sin.

Having Blount walk immediatement dérriere de la reine- _immediately behind the queen-_ had the unfortunate effect of demonstrating just how short the her highness truly was. She almost looked freiné. 

_Freiné,_ Anne wracked her brain. _Freiné, freiné. Stunted, yes that’s it._ _What a tiny woman._

Yet Anne had to admit the Queen had never seemed small. Anne remembered hearing from her father that when the King had repudiated Eleanor d'Autriche that he had written to Ferdinand of Spain that he would have no other woman. Anne remembered hearing someone or other say that il était sagé- _he was wise._ Catherine was a famous beauty while Eleanor’s jaw was more deformed than her brother’s and it was true that the Spaniard seemed to illuminate every room she entered with her surety. 

_She’s more regal than he is,_ Anne thought as she watched the two dance one evening. _Of course she is. She’s the one with impeccable bloodlines raised by a mother who was said to be so sure of her right to rule that she would have gone to war with her own husband if he had attempted to take her kingdom from her._

The marriage of her parents had been tittered about when word of a minor argument between the two had reached la cour française- _the French court._ Her mistress had sniffed and asked a then seven year old Anne what her thoughts were on the matter. Anne de la Bretagne had a habit of doing so with all the young girls in her service. It wasn’t until Anne de la Bretagne had started presenting her to Dukes that Anne realised she had been teaching her _strategy._

_C’est courant-it’s normal, Anne had responded. Tous les couples mariés ont les disputes-all married couples have arguments._

_Qu’est différent pour les monarques le plus catholique?-What’s different for the Most Catholic Monarchs? Anne de la Bretagne had asked her. She always called them that._

_Ils règnent sur Castille et Aragon avec leurs propre pouvoir-they rule Castille and Aragon with their own power. Anne had said._

_Comment est-ce que ce fait changé leurs marriage? La reine a repondu-How does that fact change their marriage? The Queen had responded._

_Ils n’ont pas les âmes soeurs?-Aren’t they soulmates? Anne asked._

_Oui, Anne de la Bretagne had responded, looking mildly perplexed at the question._

_They share everything then, Anne had told her. They share their power equally. They share their right to rule as well as their pain, their sins and their very souls in the eyes of god; they will go to heaven together, they’ll suffer in Purgatory together. It’s too much. They’re_ too _intertwined._

_Perhaps, Anne de la Bretagne had replied. Perhaps._

Anne watched Blount and the King dance together after the Queen had retired to the dias, sipping her wine, head held high and eyes surveying the feasting hall. 

_This has happened before_ , Anne thought as she danced with her brother, remembering what he had said about the King taking women during the summer. 

A few days later both Anne and Bessie Blount were called to bathe the Queen. Anne found it mildly amusing that Catalina d’Aragona thought she was still bedding _cet homme_. 

Unfortunately, the rest of the court also followed that same line of thinking. Anne did not find that amusing at all.

The hangover that had made Anne’s belly riot at the very smell of food all day meant that she could barely stand the sight of the King, much less his wife. Anne was charged with stripping the short woman, eyes firmly fixed on the ground while Blount had to stir the lavender in her bathtub. When Anne glanced at the Queen’s face she saw that the Spaniard was staring at the other woman so Anne looked at Blount too. The pink cheeked blond was bent over in a way that displayed her ample cleavage. Anne didn’t think it was on purpose but she had to wonder if Catalina d’Aragona felt mildly insecure. 

Anne ignored the little twinge of _that_ in her belly. She would look awful with breasts like Blount’s; hanging onto her thin chest for dear life and bouncing about like a child on horsebacl. It would make her lourd de hauté- _top heavy_ -instead of well proportioned. Anne rather liked her body. 

As Anne looked between the two women, she had to admit that the Queen was the more beautiful. Blount was pretty in that English way without the bits of Howard handsomeness that inhabited her sister’s eyes and nose. The Queen had a youthful face, large eyed and possessed a mouth that could drive even a monk to imagine her on her knees. 

_This is what he likes; light haired, light eyed, sweet faced girls._ Anne thought, mildly uncomfortably as the Queen climbed into her bath, giving some order to Blount. _Why did God choose to bind him to a woman like me?_

_Well, someone in a marriage has to be handsome and God knows he’s the prettiest man I’ve ever seen._

_Handsome,_ Anne had been called in France. _Elegant. Nubile. Alluring. Hypnotic. Exotic. Sensual. Sultry._

These were women who had been born beautiful. 

Anne wondered what _cet homme_ would have made of her if she’d come to him before he married the Queen, seulement après que son quatorzième anniversaire comme une fille maigrichonne plat qui avait un visage criblait d’acné- _just after her fourteenth birthday as a scrawny, flat-chested fourteen year old girl who had face riddled with acne._

He would have still married Catalina d’Aragona. 

_Le connard would have regretted it by the time I turned seventeen,_ Anne thought.

“Mistress Boleyn,” The Queen said, knocking Anne out of her head. “Bring the water from the fire.”

Anne curtsied and did as she was told, fetching it and hurrying back to the Queen.

“Shall I wash your hair, your ‘ighness?” Anne inquired. 

“Yes, Mistress Boleyn.”

As Anne lifted the jug of warm water to pour it over the Queen’s hair her arms began to shake. She bit her tongue and managed to tilt it over before it slipped from her grip and went clattering to the floor.

“Mistress Boleyn?” The Queen snapped. 

“I feel faint.” Anne managed to stutter out. “I’m sorry, your 'ighness.”

“Go see a physician this instant.” The Queen ordered.

Anne curtsied and scurried away. 

She spent that night sitting beside her bed and wringing her hands.

Anne was simply walking to the stables with Madge Shelton with a saddle bag thrown over her shoulder and a pounding headache. _Cet homme_ had overindulged the night before and Madge, thankfully, had the good sense not to chatter too much. Her cousin had lost s’amê soeur quand elle a seulement douze ans dans ce qui a dû un accident horrible- _her soulmate when she was only twelve years old in what must have been a horrible accident._ Anne had heard from Nan Gainesville that Madge wouldn’t talk about it. 

Anne couldn’t blame her. She wondered what would have happened if _cet homme_ had died during _that_ joust. 

_Perhaps I would have been abed for a few days but then I would have carried on,_ Anne thought. She had to admit the idea of James IV becoming King of England was an interesting one. He would have had a rebellion on his hands the moment he and Queen Margaret crossed the border. Courtesy of Norfolk, of course. 

Anne was interrupted from her musings when she found her step inexplicably leading her to the left. Anne looked and saw the King laughing with Compton. She paused to listen.

“Look at you!” The knight said. “It’s only the start of the season and you’re aching all over. It’s going to be a summer of _hard_ riding for you, isn’t it your highness?”

Anne looked away, knowing well that her sore thighs played a role in that. 

_And hard drinking,_ She thought bitterly. 

“Anne?” Madge asked. 

“Coming,” Anne replied and hurried after her cousin. She barely made it five steps before there was a shout behind her.

“Mistress Boleyn!” 

_Oh no,_ Anne thought, turned around and curtsied. The King was hurrying toward her, a small smile upon his face. He bowed and clasped his hands in front of him.

“Your highness,” Anne said.

“What’s keeping you inside on this fine day?” The King inquired. 

“The need to be properly dressed before going outside.” Anne responded, wryly. “Lady Shelton and I are going riding.”

“Yes, well..” He trailed off for a moment, brow knitting together. “I was just on the way to the stables myself.”

Anne looked him up and down. He was wearing les chaussures noires- _black shoes_ , hose, socks tied to his calves with a blue ribbon that matched son pourpoint et les chaussettes blanches et propres- _his doublet and clean white socks_. Anne raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed.” She replied, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Well, in that case we welcome your company.”

His face hardened and his eyes gained a sharp glint before he responded.

“If I may,” _Cet homme_ offered her arm and Anne took it, glancing quickly at a wide eyed Madge. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. 

_God save me_ , Anne thought. The court was already whispering about her, Bessie Blount and what the King could possibly be doing with the both of them at night. This wasn’t exactly going to shut their mouths. 

“Is your 'ighness well enough to ride?” Anne inquired. 

“I’m sorry?” The King responded, looking at her from the corner of his eye and raising one eyebrow.

“I could not ‘elp but overhear that you were sore from the past days _overexertion,_ ” Anne said, holding her gaze.

“I am as well as ever.” The King smirked at her as he spoke. He was studying her, eyes peering into hers. It made her feel like she was about to have them gouged out. “In fact, Charles, Will and I were planning on spending the afternoon shooting.”

He spoke loudly, making Anne glance over her shoulder to see the two men look at each other quickly before Compton turned on his heel and hurried off. 

Neither of the three were holding a bow 

“Lovely, your ‘ighness.” Anne replied. He dipped his head to her ear before he spoke.

“If you have other engagements, I’d suggest you send your apologies.” The King told her. 

It was not a suggestion. 

“I am afraid zat will be difficult, your highness,” Anne said. Anne had no plans for that afternoon. 

“Why?” He inquired. 

“My reputation relies on my virtue and my _manners_ ” Anne reminded him. “I keep my promises, your highness.”

“You are a very evasive woman, little creeper,” _Cet homme_ said. He was still studying her, eyes as cold as the smile on his face. 

“I keep myself busy.” Anne replied. 

“So busy that you do not even have time for your King?” He asked. Anne knew she was caught. 

C’était son jeu; ne s’était pas- _it was his game; not hers_ . She had not found herself entangled in this type of trap before. Even with Barons and Dukes she could always dart just out of their grasp, weaving her own web about them. They were not _cet homme._

 _The King of England holds the fate of everyone in this country in the palm of his hand,_ Norfolk had said. Anne’s heart started to hammer in her chest.

“I am surprised your highness has the time to be curious about 'ow I spend mine.” Anne responded. 

“I am always curious about you, Mistress Boleyn.” The King said light-heartedly. 

Anne didn’t respond, repressing the giddy feeling rising in her belly even as the pounding dans ses tempes empiraient par la seconde- _in her temples got worse by the second._

_I am not a child,_ Anne reminded herself. _I am not a girl blinded by my first love._

“Your highness is curious about my body.” She snapped back, glaring at him. His eyes darted around nervously before he sucked in a deep breath of air.

“I owe you an apology,” The King said. Anne felt her glare melt from her face. She had not expected _this._ “I haven’t exactly been gentle with you.”

“Gentle?” Anne scoffed.

“You fascinate me,” The King explained. “And I am a rather impatient man, Mistress Boleyn.”

“You are _spoiled_.” Anne replied, knowing very well that that was what he meant. “You storm over everything and everyone to get what you want.”

“I didn't mean to trample you,” He replied. “I don’t think I could stand seeing you hurt.”

He hadn't apologized.

Anne looked away, embarrassed. It was the false kind of admission; intended to pull her in without showing her anything of him. She knew that very well. 

“Zat is very kind, you highness.” Anne replied, unsure of what else she could say. She slipped her hand out from beneath his elbow only to have it snatched out of the air. She glanced quickly at the King and then at Madge and Brandon, walking a step or two behind. Their eyes were fixed on her. He let her go.

Anne thought she might scream by the time she actually made it to the barn. Thankfully her horse was stabled in a different part of the building than the King’s. It gave her a few moments of peace. If this could be called peace that is. 

“Anne,” Madge murmured, helping her saddle Aphrodite. Anne had sent the stable boy away with a few coins, telling him to buy himself a beer. The King would have noticed if she hadn’t sent someone running off. “Is it true?”

“No,” She replied. “Absolutely not.”

“Are you going to take up with him?” Madge asked. Anne found she appreciated her cousin’s bluntness even though it normally irritated her.

“I’ve already told ‘im _no_.” Anne hissed in response. Madge snorted and shook her head.

“Good luck,” She replied. “He seems to like Boleyns.”

“Mary and I are also _Howards,_ ” Anne snapped back, irritated by the comment. “I’d be worried about myself if I were you.”

“Oh,” Madge said, her smile becoming mischievous. “I wouldn’t mind tumbling with him again. He’s very, very good.”

Anne stared at her cousin, mouth agape and eyes nearly bulging out of her skull. She knew she ought not be surprised. 

“I’m joking Anne,” Madge said, shaking her head and snickering. 

Anne wasn’t entirely sure she was.

 _Yes,_ She thought _. This isn’t funny but, yes, go ahead and get your jollies Madge._

Anne took her gants d’équitation- _riding gloves-_ from her purse as she waited in the courtyard for the King to get on his stallion. He had une arbalète- _crossbow-_ tucked under his arm. Compton was holding another two. Anne fully intended to snatch one the moment they entered the woods.

Her gloves were made of leather and cool to the touch. Anne held one to her forehead. It did nothing to relieve _cet homme’s_ hangover. 

Anne’s hips and thighs burned as he swung himself into the saddle in front of her. 

_It would be more fitting if he rode a mare._ Anne thought, looking at his horse. Anne tightened her grip on the reines when he turned his brown stallion around toward her. Aphrodite tossed her head in protest and Anne loosened her grip before murmuring an apology. 

The King looked ridiculous in his hose and socks and short hair. They would all be ruined before the afternoon was over. 

“Shall we be off?” The King hollered and Madge, Charles and Anne kicked their horses into movement. 

_Cet homme_ un cavalier excellent- _an excellent rider_ . Anne had heard he was a talented horseman but _this_ was beyond that. He rode comme s’il est né dans la selle- _as if he were born in a saddle_ , thundering ahead of his four companions and the guards with them. Anne kept up easily, plus que confortable à dos de cheval- _more than comfortable on horseback_ , despite the pain in her thighs, hips and calves. 

It was strange to be right next to him and know that he was in pain as well. 

Anne supposed he was accustomed to les gueules de bois- _hangovers-_ than he could shrug off the pain easily. 

They rode for nearly half an hour, heading deep into the woods before the King decided they had found the spot to begin the hunt. He sprung from his horse first, shoes sinking dans la blue- _in the mud_. Anne knew it would seep through the velvet and into his socks. She made to hop out of the saddle, having been taught how to jump off a horse without baring her legs over a decade ago. Unfortunately, the King decided to appear in front of her. 

“May I?” He asked. Anne blinked at him for a moment before nodding. He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her down. Anne gritted her jaw to keep from shouting, the sudden drop making her head light. 

This was not dancing. _Cet homme_ was too close, eyes looking down at her as he set her on her feet. Their chests were nearly touching. She could see the miniscule movement in his doublet as he breathed. Anne wildly imagined that she could smell the musk of his body. 

He stepped away and turned around to help Madge. 

Anne tossed her reines to a waiting guard and strode toward Brandon, pulling her gants d’équitation- _riding gloves-_ off and tucking them into her purse.

“We’ll have to trade off,” Brandon said as he handed her the arbalète- _crossbow._

“I’ll go first,” Anne informed him. He snorted at that and Anne looked at him for a moment. 

“Seems like something you’d do.” He replied, shrugging. 

“The more birds we shoot ze more will flee,” Anne said and walked away. 

_Ils sont caille-they are quail,_ Anne wondered. _Qu'est-ce que caille?_

If there was one thing Anne could say for certain about the King as a hunter was that he was competitive. Anne watched frustration build on his face as Madge bagged bird after bird. 

Anne de la Bretagne loved to ride out on a hunt as much as this King and his Queen did and had ensured Anne could shoot as well as un homme d’arc anglais- _an English longbowmen._ She was horribly out of practice. 

Anne had bagged only four birds by mid afternoon when she handed her bow over to Brandon. Madge, on the other hand, had seven, one more than the King.

“Well done, Mistress.” He said to the blonde. “You have the eye of Diana herself.” 

“Thank you, your highness,” Madge replied. “But I am not as talented as yourself. I’ve only been lucky.”

Anne felt fury rise up in her chest but bit it down, tearing her gaze away from them. She turned to William Compton.

“Did you have lunch before you left?” Anne inquired, knowing full well he hadn’t. “I ‘ave some food in my saddle bag if you want to split it.”

“I’ll gladly take you up on the offer, Mistress Boleyn,” _Cet homme_ responded. 

_Vraiment?_ Anne thought. _Really?_

The King smiled at her, handed his arbalète- _crossbow-_ to Compton and offered her his arm. Anne fought the urge to roll her eyes as she took it. They walked back to the horses quickly and Anne produced the promised food from her saddlebag. 

“Do you like apples, Mistress Boleyn?” The King asked when he saw the fruit.

“No,” She replied. “They’re Madge’s favorite. I’m saving it for ‘er.”

Anne put the apple back in the bag and pulled out the wineskin. She took a big gulp before offering it to the King, knowing full well he’d drain it on the spot. 

_Cet homme_ only took a sip. 

“Bread?” Anne offered. The King took the offered loaf and ripped it in half, handing the larger portion back to her. 

_Does he think he’s being generous?_ Anne wondered. _Gentle. He wants to be gentle._

Anne took it and began to eat before she glanced around them. 

“I’m going to go sit down,” She told him as she curtsied. 

“Where?” He replied. Anne gestured vaguely at a tree. The King grabbed his jacket off of the back of his horse and followed her. 

“Use this,” The King said, offering his jacket to her. 

“I wouldn’t want to dirty your clothes any further,” Anne said, nodding her head down to his socks and chaussures- _shoes._ They were completely covered in mud and grass.

 _Ne récupérable pas-unsalvageable,_ Anne thought with mild disgust. _What a waste._

“I have others,” The King smiled at her and dropped his dark blue, fur lined jacket onto the ground. Anne lowered herself slowly, mindful of her headache. The King, sur l’autre main- _on the other hand,_ dropped down like a rock. Anne felt a spike of pain in her own temples as he did so and bit her tongue to keep from shrieking at him.

 _Cet homme_ looked stunned, pretty, pink lips parted and eyes hazy before he regained himself.

“Zey are replaceable for you.” Anne grunted out. 

“And out of season,” The King replied, smiling softly. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“A luxury amongst excesses.” Anne said.

“Do you think me an excessive man, little creeper?” The King asked.

“Per'aps,” Anne responded as he scratched the back of his head. Anne took a bite of her bread and watched him, realising il massait les muscles à la base de son crâne- _he was massaging the muscles at the base of his skull._

“We all pay for our excesses, your ‘ighness,” Anne continued. “Ze greater ze excess, ze greater the payment they will take.”

“Like our sins?” The King asked. Anne tilted her head to the side and ate another piece of bread. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, chewing, before the King spoke again.

“What are your excesses?” He asked. Anne’s eyes snapped up to his face.

“Good books, excellent conversation and fine clothes,” Anne replied without a second thought.

 _Anger,_ She thought to herself. _Fear. Greed._

“And yours?” She asked. 

“Much of the same.” He said, looking out at the muddy road, the guards and the horses in front of them. Les soldats mangeaient aussi comme si- _the soldiers were also eating as if-_ the man sitting beside her had given some signal that c’était le temps pour le déjeuner- _it was time for lunch._

“You are a King,” Anne scoffed. “And a man. Surely you 'ave more than that.”

Henry gave her a withering look, eyes cutting into hers. Anne wondered if he could see the pounding of her blood through her temples.

“You forgot to add ‘bad manners’ to your list, Mistress.” The King said.

“My manners are impeccable,” Anne sniffed, after she had swallowed her mouthful of bread. “Zough I must apologize for I forgot to include ‘insults.’”

“So I’m being insulted for being the King?” The King said, smiling widely and shaking his head back and forth. “What _are_ they teaching women in France?”

“Better manners than the English ones,” Anne replied. _Cet homme_ snorted. 

“And disrespect I’d wager,” The King said. When he turned his head to look at her she could see how his eyes were blazing with anger. Anne forced herself to tilt her chin up, the movement causing her temples to throb in complaint.

“Good judgement.” Anne replied. “Ladies-in-waiting to Anne of Brittany are taught good judgement in all matters.” 

“Is it good judgement to insult your King?” The King asked. He did not sound offended, nor irritated but mildly amused yet his eyes were still burning. 

“It is good judgement to assess a suitor as best as you can,” Anne responded. The King’s face lit up with a smile and the fire in his eyes was extinguished in less than a second. “And you….”

“Oh, ho,” He said. “You’ll have me as a suitor then?”

 _Make for good practice,_ Anne finished the sentence in her head and fought the urge to sigh even as she smiled back at him. 

“I haven’t decided yet.” Anne responded, pursing her lips. She looked at the guards, seated around someone's cap, playing le dé- _dice_. “I won’t have a man who doesn’t know himself nor a man who belongs to another.”

“Well,” The King said, ignoring her _other_ requirement. “I know myself very well.”

“Do you?” Anne inquired, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“What makes you assume I don’t?” The King raised an eyebrow at her as he ate his last bit of bread.

“You have a ‘angover.” Anne replied. “As you normally do.”

He looked at her with his eyes narrowed in confusion, stuffed cheeks and wrinkled forehead. He rubbed the back of son cou- _his neck._

“I have a _headache_ ,” The King informed her. Anne stared at him for a moment and he stared right back at her, before sighing and lowering himself slowly to lay on the ground.

“Oh,” Anne replied, feeling far more shocked than she should be. “I’m sorry.” 

“What has your brother been telling you about me?” He groaned. 

“Nothing I haven’t heard from the rest of the court,” Anne shrugged. She patted his chest on impulse.

The King snatched her hand comme un enfant qui était offrir un bonbon- _like a child being offered a sweet._

“Haven’t you heard what they say about you?” He inquired and tutted, cradling her hand between the two of his. Anne fought the urge to rip it from his grasp. “I see your needles still give you trouble.”

“Always,” Anne said. “I 'ave never had her highness’s talent for sewing.”

 _Cet homme_ ignored the jab about his wife just as she had ignored his jab about her reputation and rubbed one of his thumbs over her knuckles..

“You have a thousand other talents,” The King’s voice was deeper than she’d ever heard it. C’était intime- _it was intimate._

 _So,_ Anne thought as she looked at how he was sprawled lazily on the ground with his socks covered in mud and the pearls on his doublet catching the light of the sun. _This is why Mary loved you._

He threaded the fingers of his left hand through hers but bent his thumb inward and traced a circle onto her palm. Anne’s hand jumped at the contact which only made the infernal man do it again. 

“What are your best qualities?” She asked him instead. He paused for a worrisome amount of time before he spoke, idly rubbing Anne’s wrist. 

“I’m well read, athletic, rather charming and somewhat more intelligent than most give me credit for,” The King replied.

“You think anyone would be daft enough to call you stupid?” Anne asked, looking down at him in disbelief.

“I _am_ presently sitting with a woman who thinks I’m a habitual drunk,” The King replied. 

“I thought you ‘ad a hangover,” Anne said. “ _I’m sorry_ , your ‘ighness _.”_

 _I actually am,_ Anne thought. _I actually bloody am for once._

“You’re forgiven.” _Cet homme_ said. He lifted her wrist to his mouth and pressed three gentle kisses to son endroit de pouls- _pulse point_ . Anne’s skin prickled up and she felt her body flush. He kissed the tips of her fingers just as gently and started rubbing circles on her palm again. Anne began to shiver as he stroked the strip of skin between son pouce et son index- _her thumb and her index finger._ Anne looked down at her joli âme soeur- _pretty soulmate-_ and wondered what would happen if she bent over and kissed his lips. She wondered what would happen if she nipped at his full bottom lip. She wanted to trace the small cupid’s bow of his upper lip with her fingers after she’d kissed them until they were swollen and red. Anne wanted his fingers in her mouth so she could swirl her tongue between them and taste his skin.

 _Merde,_ Anne thought as her mind faissait apparaître un autre image de comment elle pouvait goûter son corps- _conjured up another image of how she could taste his body._ Anne looked over at the guards sitting across the road. She looked back at _cet homme_ sprawled out in front of her, his right knee bent up and left hip spread wide so that his leg was lolling slightly to the outside. It would be far too easy to crawl between his thighs, shove them wide, délace ses culottes- _unlace his hose-_ and put her mouth on his bite- _co_ _ck_ -like she’d heard ladies giggle about in France.

 _Absolutely not,_ Anne thought and gently tugged her hand from his. She looked him over for a moment, pursing her lips and calming her pounding heart. 

“What?” He asked. 

“Do have headaches often?” Anne responded, more on impulse than anything.

“No, not really,” He said. “I’ve had them more frequently of late though. My physicians say it’s due to the rain.”

“'Ave you tried that lavender tonic?” Anne asked.

“That what?” He responded, looking up at her curiously. 

“Dr. Butts mixes his with ginger,” Anne told him. “It helps me quite a bit.”

“No I haven’t.” The King told her. “I didn’t know you’re interested in medicine.”

“I am not,” Anne informed him. “I just tend to remember interesting zings.”

“Curiousity is an excellent quality, little creeper,” The King hummed, smiling softly at her. “You haven’t told me your others.”

“I ‘ave a good wit, I am very well educated, I am an excellent dancer, intelligent, social and stubborn.” Anne replied.

“You consider being stubborn a positive trait?” _Cet homme_ asked. Anne narrowed her eyes at him.

“It often is, your highness.” Anne replied. “When displayed with some subtlety.”

There was a loud laugh from down the road as Madge trampled into view, Compton and Brandon not far behind. Anne folded her hands on her lap and sat up as straight as she could. There was not much she could do as she already possessed impeccable posture. 

“You forgot loyalty,” The King told her, propping himself up on his forearms. 

“So I did,” She responded.

 _No I did not,_ Anne thought. _It’s only a useful trait when you have something to gain from it. I’d have tossed my little sister into your bed without a second thought if it hadn’t sent the three of use to hell._

Anne would _not_ be saying that. The thought of Mary beside _cet homme_ made her belly twinge with guilt.

“Shall we?” Anne asked as she rose and offered him her hand. The King nodded and took it. She pulled him up, noticing just how heavy he actually was for such a thin man. He picked up his now filthy jacket. 

_Ne récuperaeble pas-unsalveagable,_ Anne thought again. _What a waste._

“Is there anything left to eat?” Madge hollered at her.

“Yes,” Anne shouted back. “I saved you an apple and some bread!”

Anne turned to walk back to the horses but was stopped by a gentle hand on her upper arm. The King put his mouth to her ear before he spoke.

“I’d suggest that you _assess_ Lord Percy more closely, my little creeper,” The King murmured. Then he released her and strode away. 

_He didn’t actually apologize,_ Anne realised later that evening, as Harry Percy led her out of the feasting hall. She looked back over her shoulder to see the King’s face alight with a beautiful smile as he danced the Volta with Bessie Blount.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historically, Henry VIII was a bit of a hypochondriac and actually founded the Royal College of Physicians of London in 1518, which is oldest medical college in England. He also founded Trinity College at Cambridge and Christ Church college at Oxford. On top of that, if Wikipedia is correct, he's tied for most schools founded in English history with Nathaniel Woodward who lived during the nineteenth century which means he founded the most schools out of any English King during the Renaissance. (Dude, everyone forgets this when you execute your wives so how about you don't do it?). Given he was a hypochondriac and was very particular about his clothes and appearance he probably wouldn't have gone traipsing around the muddy woods with his crush in hose, shoes and socks but it works in the story and the Henry VIII of the Spanish Princess seems a bit (a lot) more careless than I think he historically was so I can justify it.  
> Secondly, yes, Henry has been getting drunk as is shown in the previous few chapters but he also is suffering from the symptons of an untreated very severe concussion. The Tudors had no idea just how dangerous head injuries were nor did they know how to treat them. I know from personal experience with concussions that if any of his jousting injuries had happened today he would have immediately had a battery of tests done to check for a brain aneurysm. His concussion would negatively impact his descision making skills, ability to regulate his emotion, his overall cognitive function and his mental health (which in turn causes problems for Anne).  
> Thirdly, I mentioned this in a comment but I'll reiterate it here; Anne is an extremely biased narrator which is going to become increasingly obvious but she's not really that far off about a lot.  
> I'll probably slow down with updates after the end of this week as I'm starting a new job so just a head's up.  
> Finally, I translate the French myself but it's only my second language and I'm less confident with some of the translations in this chapter than in the other ones so if anyone sees something grammatically wrong please drop a comment!  
> Comments are my caffeine so let me know what you think!


	8. June 1512: Unasked for Presents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne finds her neck in Henry's hands (a noose).

Norfolk called a family meeting three days after Anne went hunting with the King. Anne arrived early and sat herself down at the head of the table in Norfolk’s chair. He looked at her and scoffed, pouring himself a glass of wine.

“Want one?” He grunted. 

“No,” Anne replied. “I find I have little appetite for anything at ze moment.”

Norfolk scoffed again and drained his glass.

“The King…” Norfolk began.

“Took my refusal very well,” Anne replied, cutting him off. 

“That’s unlikely,” Norfolk said. “You’ve all but thrown us from court, girl. What were you thinking?”

Anne bit her tongue and clasped her fingers together to keep from biting a nail.

“Mary is for him,” Anne replied. “And, furthermore, he only takes women like her to bed for more than a night. Blount, Mary and the Queen are three of a kind or so I am told; pale, pretty, accommodating, even tempered, and forgiving. Surely it would be wiser to play her.” 

“The King’s taken a liking to you and- _don’t play daft with me, you chit,”_ Norfolk barked as Anne opened her mouth to interrupt. _“_ You’re bloody well smart enough to know how to keep him. You’ve got whatever French tricks you learned and a better head on your shoulders than your sister.”

 _I swear on my own bones, on Anne de la Bretagne’s life, that I will destroy you,_ Anne thought, trying desperately to control her fury. _I will see you in a cell in the Tower, begging for your life, and the last thing you’ll learn in this world before you’re marched to the block is who brought you so low._

“Yet I don’t love him,” Anne replied. “And he’d soon tire of me.”

“Not likely,” Norfolk snorted. “Hold out till the end of the summer and you’ll have him mad for you. It’ll be easier too, we won’t have to break a second marriage. _Jesus_ knows what your father was thinking marrying her off first…. ”

“Do you really think _cet homme_ is that stupid?” Anne asked, unable to contain her fury. “Do you really think he’s some virgin boy to be led around by pretty promises? I am not that good of an actress, _your grace_ , and I can assure you he is not welcome in my bed.”

“I’ll say who you’ll welcome in your bed,” Norfolk informed her. “Catherine of Aragon handled him well enough. He was all but brawling with his father over that Spaniard. I’ve seen the work you’ve done on Percy; you make her look like a clumsy girl.”

Anne didn’t respond for a moment before she slowly looked up at her uncle.

“Your grace,” Anne said carefully. “Am I to believe that you are _foolish enough_ to back _me_ for Queen rather than _my sister?_ ” 

Norfolk’s cheeks turned red with anger but Anne held his gaze. 

“You’ll do your duty to your family.” He snapped.

“And, Uncle, does picking me over my sister truly benefit _my family?”_ Anne asked, not taking her eyes off his face.

 _Jolie, Jolie French girl,_ Anne thought suddenly. _That’s what you want isn’t it? Pretty, pretty French girl with her pretty, pretty eyes fixed on the ground and the King’s cock buried in her pretty, pretty French cunt._

Carefully, she smiled at her Uncle. It did not reach her eyes. Norfolk opened his mouth to respond but shut it as there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Anne called, tilting her chin up so that she was looking down her nose at her uncle. He looked away. 

Her parents walked in, said their greetings and took their seats. Anne began to pick at the cuticle on her right thumb. It had been half bitten, scratched and peeled away by Anne’s work. Gnawing at it allowed her to calm howling fury in her belly into silence. She wanted to double over and rest her forehead on the table. Instead she looked at Norfolk.

 _You’re right,_ Anne would say s’elle était une femme de bonne foi- _if she was an honest woman. It should be me._ _I s_ _hould be his Queen. I should be the lover in his bed; his closest companion; his wife; the mother of his heirs. It is my God given right by the laws of the church and by the laws of men._

She looked at Norfolk, who was pouring himself another glass of wine with his back to her.

“The King has taken a liking to Anne,” Norfolk announced.

“You’ve already said that Uncle,” Anne responded grumpily, tucking her hands back into her lap. 

“Anne!” Her father responded. “I apologize for…”

“Why must you always be ze one apologizing pour something, Father?” Anne hummed. “Is it because you are ze only one who _cares_ for my ‘onor?”

“Anne!” Elizabeth Boleyn said, sounding shocked. “What’s gotten into you?”

Anne ignored her. 

“If you want Mary in ‘is bed she’ll need to be back at court before we leave Hampton.” Anne said, still holding Norfolk’s gaze. “A willing, very pretty, blonde, honest _Boleyn_.” 

Norfolk and Anne watched each other for yet another moment before he spoke.

“Send for her this afternoon,” He ordered. “Two horses in the race are better than one.”

“You want to send the both of them to his bed?” Anne’s mother squawked. 

“He won’t marry Mary if he ‘as committed incest,” Anne commented mildly.

“He may very well not be marrying Mary at all, Anne,” Norfolk replied, raising an eyebrow at her. “You’re smart enough to know that, what with Blount spreading her legs, the Queen up the duff and his developing interest in you.” 

“George and I will need to reintroduce her to the King,” Anne said, ignoring her uncle entirely. Anne nodded her head slowly. 

“George, you and the King have become close enough it shouldn’t be too difficult.” Anne's father mused, sounding like he was speaking more to himself than anyone else. Anne took a quick look at him out of the corner of her eye and saw that he had his head cocked to the side. Sa satané père était en accord avec le programme- _her bloody father agreed with the plan._

“The both of them?” Her mother asked, her worry apparent in her open mouth and the strain of her knuckles as she gripped the arms of her chair. Beneath the table Anne reached out put her hand on her mother’s thigh and squeezed softly. Elizabeth Boleyn looked quickly at her eldest child with horrified eyes. Elle avait les même yeux comme Anne- _she had the same eyes as Anne._

“Perhaps,” Anne responded to Norfolk, ignoring her mother’s inquiry. “Between George and I it should not be too difficult.

 _My neck is the one in the noose now,_ Anne wanted to say. _You were willing to hang Mary. Is it the idea of two girls enjoying a short drop that bothers you? Where the fuck were you when they were ready to whore my sister out?_

Anne began to pick at her nails, keeping her mouth firmly shut. She didn’t like where her thoughts had taken her. 

Anne’s thighs were so sore from the ride to Hampton Court that she was worried she wouldn’t be able to dance at the King’s birthday feast. It was to be a massive affair. 

_Très approprié-very appropriate,_ Anne thought as she watched pages hanging ornate banners of the Tudor rose on brown velvet and cloth of gold hanging from the ceiling. There was to be a Pageant of the Muses with a Mistress Bessie Blount playing Aphrodite herself. _Cet homme_ elle-baisait certainement- _cet homme was certainly fucking her-_ at this point and now even the French Ambassador would know about it. She wondered just how much losing son hymen- _her maidenhead-_ had hurt. 

_Gentle,_ Anne thought. _Cet homme n’est pas gentil-is not gentle._

There was little chance of Anne’s gentle little sister participating in the pageant given she was set to arrive the day of the King’s birthday or the day after. 

“She’ll make a wonderful present,” George grumbled as the two Boleyns hurried through the feasting hall, masks in hand, à la répétition- _to the rehearsal._ “If Blount hasn’t trussed herself up with a bow.”

Anne could see Blount standing amongst the other dancers, chattering easily away with someone or other. 

_Seymour,_ Anne thought. _Merde, my father would be frantic if I told him._

As if women just randomly banded together with the sole intent to keep the Boleyns out of power.

 _We should all just open family brothels and trade ourselves for lands and Garter Belts,_ Anne thought grumpily. She put her petit orteil- _pinky finger_ -in her mouth and began to gnaw at the nail.

She was Terpischore, the muse of dance. Anne did not find that amusing. 

The King had laughed when she’d told him. He’d guffawed at her until she asked if he was done and then he’d chuckled for another few minutes.

He and Brandon had found it hilarious that she was irritated by what was _certainly_ intended as a complement. Anne was, in fact, displeased that Blount would be Aphrodite. 

Not that she told them that, of course. 

In France, danseuse étolie- _lead dancer-_ had always been chosen by skill rather than who would curry the most favor with le Roi, in part due to the fact that he preferred prostitutes to any woman other than his wife.

Anne de la Bretagne wouldn’t stand for anything other perfection when it came to dancing. Anne’s old mistress could not dance very well herself, on account of her jambe déformé- _deformed leg,_ and only did so on important occasions but she was _La Reine de la France et La Duchesse de la Bretagne._ She had never and likely would never tolerate behavior or a demonstration of skill that did not enhance or maintain the excellent reputation she cultivated for her duchy and her country.

Anne had been one of the best dancers in court by the time she was fifteen. That was to say, she had no betters, only equals.

Anne thought that competition between women had to have been similar to that in a harem; the lot of them were as polite as can be, friendly, well mannered, elegant and ready to poison each other for a night in the Sultan’s bed or, in this case, a night at the center of court. 

Anne had been the lead in three pageants before she left, less than all of her rivals. If she had not been called away prematurely she would have added another one or two to her tally. 

She might very well be wedded too. Perhaps even a duchess. 

Blount was rather good but en la France elle aurait encore moins de chance de prendre à un cortège qu’un âne- _in France she would have less chance of participating in a pageant than a donkey._

 _Non,_ Anne thought as the ladies were instructed to begin the rehearsal. _Ce n’est pas vrai-that’s not true. There had been a donkey in a Yuletide pageant when Anne was seven._

La répétition- _rehearsal_ -went horribly because _of course_ _it did_. They were seulement une semaine- _a week-_ before the King’s birthday and it was only their first time practicing together. Anne and George picked up the steps up with ease, hopping around each other, kicking their heels and twirling about each other with confidence bred into them from their childhoods on the continent. 

The less said about the others the better. 

Madge Shelton and Jane Parker had taken to accompanying Anne whenever she went into the gardens early in the morning, the former claiming she needed to exercise her legs. Anne just thought Madge wanted to see who was out and about. 

It took away from her time with Harry Percy but Anne had found ways to make up for it during the evening. There were no less than a thousand hidden little halls in Hampton, filled with nooks and crannies for young lovers to hide in. Unfortunately, it seemed the King knew about them as well.

“So, he what?” Madge asked, looking at Anne in amusement. 

“‘E followed us and all but snatched off Harry’s arm.” Anne replied grumpily.

“Were you two, uh,” Madge asked. “Entangled?”

“Not yet we were not.” Anne replied, scowling at the ground.

“And so you went back to his highness’ rooms and found some relief there?” Jane teased. 

“No!” Anne squaked and glared at her awful, awful friends. “Don’t you dare say that! What are you zinking?!”

“It’s funny,” Madge shrugged. “He’s like a jealous puppy.”

“Except that puppy is _the King,_ ” Jane reminded her friend and then turned to Anne. 

“It’s not like I’m saying that to anyone else, Anne,” She told the black haired woman. “God, I’ve told Nan to shut her mouth half a dozen times this past week.”

“What’s she said?” Anne asked. 

“Enough to make me think she’d be more than happy to take Bessie’s place,” Madge told her. “And skilled enough at that.” Jane mused. 

“Indeed?” Anne replied, smirking and nodding her head gently. “Let’s talk about something else. Have you heard the King’s in meetings with the Austrian ambassador again?”

“Everyone’s heard that.” Madge sighed. “The Queen prefers her family to France.”

“Of course she works for them,” Jane responded. “They’re her family.”

 _That is never a given,_ Anne thought. _Am I not evidence of that?_

Anne barely slept rather well the week before King’s birthday, or rather, better than she had in Eltham. Anne would go to bed early and lie in her bed, asleep, until midnight when whatever demon took over her body at night drove her from her rooms. Anne liked the back halls of Hampton Court more so than the ones in Westminster. There were more twists, more turns, more little nooks and crannies to hide when the light of a torch warned her that someone was coming. They were only ever allowed a glimpse of her flying hair behind her or a flash of her white nightdress catching their eyes as she fled. Her bare feet made no sound as she ran or walked in the night, concealed from even her own eyes. 

And there was no one to see her be unladylike. 

At first Anne kept one hand on the wall so that she would not get lost but by the vingt-huitième de juin- _twenty-eighth of June-_ she knew the back hallways better than the dance for the pageant. 

More often than not, out of sheer boredom, she danced about in the hallway, leaping and twirling to the rhythm of the Gavotte she’d have to perform. In the dark she could swing her hips and twist like a snake without fearing the judgement of her own eyes and those of others. She could walk with long strides like those of a man or up on her toes like a cat. She could even slump over on herself but she did not. Ce serait rustre- _that would be uncouth._

The night before le jour de naissance de _cet homme_ \- _that man’s birthday_ -Anne practiced, feeling pressing cool, uncaring, unchanging stone on the pads of her hot feet. George would move left here, and she would step in front of him there and then plié, chin tilted up, one hand in her brother’s and the second held in front of her. Then there was a turn. 

Anne spun around only to see the light of a flame much too close. It was seulement une seconde tróp en retard- _just a second too late._ As Anne fled into a small hallway, she heard a shout from behind her, far enough away that whomever was chasing her would not catch her.

Or so she thought.

Anne ran to a nook that hid a staircase leading somewhere deep into the earth. Anne had not had the time to go down it during the day and would not dare pendant la nuit- _during the night._ She hid herself at the top of that staircase with one hand over her mouth to muffle her own breath so she could listen for the torchbearer. She heard footsteps and men’s voices from the hallway. Anne took another step down the staircase.

“Did you see that?” Charles Brandon’s faint voice reached her ears. Anne’s heart dropped into her belly. “Jesus, I thought Norris had drunk himself stupid but there’s something out here.”

There was a response but Anne couldn’t quite make out the words and then utter silence.

“I don’t think we should disturb the dead, Charles.” The King said. He sounded as if he were not five paces away from Anne. She looked down the staircase, chest tight with panic.

 _One step will make too much noise,_ Anne decided. She gathered her hip length black hair around her breasts, seeking to hide how they showed through her nightdress from the King when he inevitably rounded the corner and saw her there. 

“Come on,” The King ordered. “I’d prefer not to keep Catherine waiting.”

“No, we can’t have that can we?” Brandon’s voice was so soft Anne almost didn’t hear him. 

As Anne heard their shoes walk away she gasped for air, utterly unaware she had been holding her breath. Slowly she sank down the ground, temples pounding in time with her pulse.

“What the _fuck_?” She asked as she folded her legs beneath her. 

The pageant was to begin at noon. Anne was, of course, fully dressed with her hair braided, twisted and netted up into the most elaborate of styles. She left part of it down for dancing for the first time since she had arrived at the English court. She prefered it up, it didn't tangle as easily but for such an occasion she would make an exception. Anne had pulled most of her hair back into a crown braid and used a moderately sized section to lay a twist on the inside of it. She tied the two portions together with pearled trim at the very back and pins. The hair that hung down to her back had two pearled clasps, one set just at the base of her neck and the other just below her shoulders, ensuring it didn’t hang down to it’s full length. It was a moderately elaborate style but then again, Anne had to wear a mask and this pageant certainly wasn’t worth the extra half hour of work that it required to produce something excellent.

The dresses were well made, at least.

Anne was the third of the women to come capering into the feasting hall, arms extended and hands relaxed just like she had been taught. They were greeted by thunderous applause and cheers from the entirety of the crowd but as Anne approached the dias she saw that only the Queen was watching the dancers.

 _Fucking fils de putain,_ Anne thought as she curtsied and fell into her place along the back line. 

Blount was indeed une danseuse tolérable, though Anne couldn’t imagine just who thought it was a good idea to have her act as Aphrodite in front of the Queen when _the King was clearly going to play Ares._

For the introduction, Anne danced as she normally did with impeccable grace and perfect poise or, rather, like she wanted a man between her thighs. She could see Harry Percy standing by the dias and watching her. She didn’t smile at him, that would break her concentration, but she did swing her hips subtly as she knelt into a curtsy. 

Ares rushed onto the dance floor, accompanied by his men, bowing and scraping to the Queen and Bessie Blount. He had slightly wild black curls peeking out from over his mask and tan hands. He and his men ran in a circle around Aphrodite before Ares bowed to her. 

_George?_ Anne thought, recognising her brother's grace as he offered his hand to Blount. Ares' men fanned out into a line, obstructing Anne's view and clapped three times before turning around and striding over to kneel next to their assigned Muse. 

Anne watched as Ares and Aphrodite began to dance, horror curling in her gut. She turned her head slowly to look at the man knelt beside her. The King of England winked back at her.

 _Fils de putain,_ Anne thought. She glanced over at Harry Percy, trying to read his expression from far too far away to even make out the color of his eyes. 

The dance of Ares and Aphrodite ended with more applause and Anne slowly rose to her feet. She took _cet homme_ ’s hand and began to dance. 

A step left, a twirl, a skip with one hand in the King’s and then a step in front. The King put his hand on her waist and almost guided her across his body.

Anne bit her tongue to keep from snapping something at him. Blount, the Queen, Harry, Anne’s parents, a dozen Ambassadors and _Norfolk_ were watching. Anne was careful to keep him as far away from her as the steps of the dance would allow. 

“Tell me, Terpischore,” _Cet homme_ murmured gently. “How does it feel to be a man’s muse?”

_“Tell me,” Anne had heard the King say to Mary as they had danced together not five steps away from her that past March, beneath la Château Verte-the green castle. “I have to know, Lady Kindness, would you be kind to me?”_

“My name is Anne,” She hissed back at him. “Use it.”

_Mary had said something back._

“Anne,” The King said, rolling her name over his tongue like it was a prayer. “ _La Anna.”_

 _Or a curse,_ Anne thought. 

_“You wound me,” Le Roi had told Mary so many months ago, just before he’d jousted with that awful slogan on his horse. “For I have no desire other than to obtain your affections.”_

_Anne had turned her head to look over at Kindness and Nobleness, as the sashes across their bodies labeled the King and her sister, recognizing the blush on Mary’s cheeks even beneath her mask. The King had glanced over at her and Anne had looked away._

“And I am Henry,” The King informed her. 

“Indeed you are, your highness,” Anne replied, keeping her eyes straight ahead. 

_“It is yours, good sir,” Mary had responded. Anne a entendu comment sa voix a tremblé quand elle a parlé-Anne heard how her voice trembled when she spoke. A rose petal falling from the castle that had been built of wood, painted green and set in the feasting hall fell on Anne’s head. “You shall find me both gentle and kind.”_

_Château Vert indeed, Anne had thought grumply. Give whomever named this silly thing a medal._

“I have received many presents over my lifetime, Anna,” The King said. “Many of which have come as surprises; I asked for them. They were simply provided by men and women who’d studied me enough to know what I like.”

 _“Do you love me then?” Le Roi demandait de la soeur d’Anne_ \- _the King had asked Anne’s sister. “Are you truly kind enough to love one such as me?”_

“I’m asking now,” _Cet homme_ continued. “Call me Henry, Anna.”

“ _Yes,” Mary had replied. When Anne had looked over her sister was beaming at him. She watched the King smile back at Mary before he looked over at her once again. “For you are the most virtuous and noble man to walk the earth._

_Bon travail-good job, Marie, Anne had thought._

“If it so pleases you,” Anne replied, barely keeping herself from snapping. “ _Hal._ ” 

“I’ve never been called _that_ before,” Hal chuckled. “I was always Harry when I was a boy.”

 _“_ Well, I already ‘ave a _Harry_ ,” Anne reminded the King. “And I like him very well.”

_“Would you be my sweetheart?” The King had asked Mary as that pageant ended. He had touched the sash hanging across her body. “My very own sweetheart?”_

_Anne remembered seeing that green castle being torn down that very evening._

“So you do,” The King replied as the dance ended, his voice light and easy. And curtsied to him, examining his face closely. His eyes peered back at her from behind his mask. They were as hard as Anne had ever seen them. The kind of cold that made her feel like he could see through her, all the way down to her bones. 

_Merde,_ Anne thought. _I’ll need to warn him. Harry forgive me._

The King lifted his mask up to his forehead as the applause faded. It immediately began again. Anne curtsied deeply, raising her eyebrows up him and not even bothering to feign shock. Anne reached behind her head to untie her mask when the King stopped her.

“Turn around,” He ordered. Anne obeyed.

“It’s pinned in my hair,” Anne told him mildly. “Do _not_ ruin my braids.”

“How long did they take?” The King asked as his hands touched the back of her head. He truly did have large hands. “Did you thread the ribbon through the prins?”

“Yes,” Anne responded. “Environ quarante-cinq minutes- _forty-five minutes of so._ ”

“Your maid must be talented,” The King said. She felt the ribbon go slack around her temples and the mask slip down her nose. 

“I did them myself,” Anne scoffed. The King carefully threaded the ribbon out of the pins, before one of his hands reached down, cupped the side of her face and gently turned her head to the side. 

Anne allowed it.

Carefully, he pulled the mask off her face and smiled gently down at her.

“Hello, Anna,” He murmured softly. Anne felt her cheeks heat up and she looked away only to see the Queen watching them both with what looked like a bemused smile on her face. 

_Fuck,_ Anne thought. She saw Harry watching her; Jane watching her; Nan; Blount; her father; Norfolk and George who had walked off the dancefloor. Her brother was standing just beside their father with his hand on a blonde, curly haired woman’s arm. 

_Oh, no_ , Anne thought. 

Her _sister_ shook George’s hand off her arm and turned to the dancefloor so that Anne could see the grief stricken expression across her face. Anne whipped her head back around to look at the King.

“Hal,” She said, gesturing toward Mary. “You ‘ave an unasked for present waiting with my brother.” 

With that she curtsied and walked straight out of the hall, head held high and arms swinging by her sides, like a man. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 25th Birthday Henry (22nd historically)! This pageant is entirely made up but I just had to contrast how Henry wooed Mary and how he's wooing Anne. For those that don't know: In The Other Boleyn Girl Henry asked Mary to "be his sweetheart" at the infamous Château Vert pageant.  
> I hadn't initially planned for Norfolk to change his plans when it came to trying to get a Howard on the throne but Henry's been so public with Anne that it became unavoidable. Additionally, I should note, in case it's not obvious, he's wooing her more openly than he is Bessie Blount which says a lot. Poor Catherine. And Poor Harry Percy. The guy won't be catching a break anytime soon.  
> Henry got the shit teased out of him by Brandon and Compton later that evening.  
> Anne was, historically, notes to be a marvelous dancer and Anne of Brittany was one of the OG feminist icons of the Renaissance. According to the Anne Boleyn files (which is a great website if you want to read up on Tudor history) "before Anne, women were hardly seen at [the French] court, but she created a real court filled with women around her. She educated them in everything and so well that she was often asked to choose among her ladies brides for Kings and nobility from all over Europe. Her ladies were known for their culture, beauty and piety." She probably wouldn't have considered herself a feminist but she really doesn't get enough credit. Like I could rush about her for hours. I mean, her second husband had her crosnes Queen twice and most French Queens before her hadn't even been crowned at all.  
> I read somewhere that Henry's actual childhood nickname was probably Hal but in the Spanish Princess it's Harry so I'm sticking with that. Anne was actually called La Anna by her enemies including Eustace Chapuys.  
> The dancing scene is loosely based off Luthian and Beren's meeting in The Silmarillion. They are my one true ship so I had to include it.  
> Comments are my caffeine so please let me know what you think!  
> EDIT: All of Anne's hairstyles are based of the pictures Lucrezia Borgia's hair from The Borgias (2011-2013) that are up on Frock Flicks. The show won at the Emmys twice for outstanding costuming and the hair is truly iconic. Additionally, Frock Flicks has the most wonderfully snarky reviews of the Spanish Princess's episodes and costumes up on the website so if you need to snicker about something go read them. And then look at pictures of Catherine's hair vs. Lucrezia's hair. Anne is simply in a different stratosphere than all the other women at court.


	9. June 29th, 1512- July 3rd, 1512: Worth Spending Money On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anne plays cards.

Mary moved into Anne’s room that very evening with her eyes red rimmed and her nose dripping snot. Anne had tied her loose hair up in a net, remembering how Mary used to pull her hair whenever they would fight as girls. Anne had her back to the door and a book she was not reading on her lap. 

“How could you?” Mary asked.

“What?” Anne asked. 

“You’re bedding _my lover_.” She said. Anne turned around and glared at the now eighteen year old standing in front of her.

“Your _suitor_ ,” Anne replied. “Unless zere is somezing you failed to mention.”

“Do you have to take everything I want from me?” Mary whimpered. “I have nothing and you still aren’t satisfied.”

“ _Nothing?_ ” Anne shouted back, getting up from her chair. “You have everything, you daft thing. You ‘ave a husband who’d take you back once the King was done with you. I am already _ruined!”_

“Why did you have to take him from me?” Mary asked, looking up at her sister with her watery grey eyes. 

“There was nothing to take,” Anne sneered and walked up to her sister. “Not from you at least.”

She put a finger under Mary’s chin and tilted her head up, scowling down at la petite fille- _the little girl-_ in front of her. 

“He is all I ever wanted,” Mary whimpered. 

“We don’t always get what we want.” Anne snarled at her sister, angrier than she could remember being in a very, very long time. She dug her blunt, chewed down nails into her sisters face “Get yourself together, go back to your bloody ‘usband and count your blessings, you _stupid chit_!” 

“You’re awful Anne,” Mary sniffled and shoved her away. “You’re truly awful.”

“Awful?” Anne laughed. “At least I’m not a _fool._ Do you truly zink it would ‘ave worked? Do you zink you really zat you would ‘ave been Queen?”

Mary burst into tears and it was all Anne could do not to slap her across her face. 

“My god,” Anne shrieked. “Look at you, you moronic cow, ‘ow could _I_ want anything from you?” 

With that she stormed out of the room and paced the hallways late into the night. 

Harry Percy found her outside of the feasting hall, her belly rumbling from going without dinner the night before and her temples throbbing with _cet homme’s_ hangover. 

_Or headache,_ Anne acknowledged. _I’d bet a Queen’s fortune it’s a hangover_

Anne had watched Harry carefully as he walked to intercept her but pretended she hadn’t seen him and continued walking toward the food.

“Anne,” He called, voice high and nervous as she’d ever heard it. 

“Harry,” She smiled broadly at him. “Good morning. Do you want to join me for breakfast?”

Anne walked right up to him and offered him her arm. He looked rather uncomfortable but took it. Anne wound her arm beneath his and let him lead her into the feasting hall. The tables were sparsely populated as most of the court was still in bed following a party Anne was almost sorry she missed.

If it had not been for the King, she knew she would have been dancing until well after midnight. She wondered whose bed he would be waking up in as she saw Blount breaking her fast with a few of the Queen’s other ladies in waiting. 

Anne and Percy chose to sit at the very end of one of the long tables. He sat himself across from her, something that was abnormal. Anne sat up straight, lifted her chin and smiled rather gently as she began to pour herself a bit of beer. The movement was smooth and practiced, designed to bare just a bit of her wrist to Harry’s gaze. 

A false kind of intimacy.

It was the same strip of skin the King had kissed on the hunt. Anne fought back a flinch as she offered to pour beer for her preferred suitor. He nodded and handed her the glass. 

Harry was fussing with the edge of his doublet, something that Anne knew meant he was nervous. She had put a loaf of bread on her plate and cut herself some beef before he spoke.

“I’d hoped we could speak in private,” He said.

“We can if you want,” Anne replied, tilting her head and smiling at him. “But after breakfast. I’m famished.”

“A hot night’s work will do that to the best of us,” Percy muttered, scowling down at his plate.

“I spent the night in my bed, in my room with my sister,” Anne snapped back.

 _Vous? Of all people, you?_ Anne thought. _Yes, of course you. Why wouldn’t you ask? What man wants a rival in the King? What man wants another man’s mistress for a wife?_

_Rather, quel homme de-what man of-your standing._

Harry didn’t respond for a few minutes, scowling down at his plate and picking at his food. Anne ate slowly, unwilling to rush herself on his behalf and end up with an upset stomach. It already gave her enough trouble. 

When she finished she stood and allowed her companion to escort her quickly from the hall. His strides were long but not long enough that Anne had to rush her own to keep up with him. They walked, as all the young lovers inhabiting Hampton Court did, towards the smaller halls leading to the nooks and crannies that could hide them from prying eyes. Anne ended up guiding the two of them, gently tugging Percy this way and that until they had found a well hidden spot.

“I am not his mistress,” Anne hissed at him. “You know me well enough to know that.”

“I know what I’ve seen, Anne,” Harry replied. “Most men don’t treat their wives like that.”

“It’s a good zing I am not ‘is wife.” Anne snapped back, deeping her accent. “I think I’d go mad if I ‘ad to sit there and watch you treat another woman like that.”

“You aren’t my wife, Anne,” He said and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you think my father would allow us to marry if he heard you’re his mistress?”

“I am not,” Anne replied. It was not the first time they had talked of marriage but it was the first time Harry had spoken of his father approving of the possibility of their marriage. Anne would have considered that a victory if it hadn’t been caused by _cet homme._ “His mistress nor your wife but I pray to God every night that I will be that to you one day. They’d have to drag me to ‘is bed in chains, Harry.”

“ _Anne_ ,” Her suitor declared. “By God I’d go to war if they did that. I’d tear him off of you with my bare hands if that’s what it took to keep you safe.”

 _You’d lose,_ Anne thought. _And you wouldn’t do that, you lovely, courtly liar._

She wondered what Harry would do if he burst into the room and found her moaning beneath the King. She wondered what he’d think if she had her legs hiked up around his waist and her mouth on his neck. Anne would be clinging to him, hands wound beneath his arms, clinging to his shoulders; wrapped around his back, feeling his lungs work like bellows beneath his ribs as he rutted into her. 

She imagined her nose and massive eyes peeking over her shoulder at him, so wrapped up in herself and Henry that she could care less. That’s how it would be after all, if it ever happened. 

“It won’t come to that,” Anne reassured, struggling to avoid rolling her eyes. “He’s asked me a dozen times to lie with him. It’s why he did that last night. It’s why ‘e took me hunting. My uncle says he likes to _hunt_ ‘is women but he is fickle. He’ll tire of this before July has ended.”

Percy looked away, twitched his nose, as was his habit when he was thinking something that was mildly unpleasant. 

“And what if he does not?” Percy asked. Anne put her hand on his cheek and gently turned his head so he was looking at her again. “What if he grows bored and, I don’t know, pulls you into some linen closet?” 

“Zen we carry on as we are now.” Anne replied. “I shall not have him.”

Anne wondered, vindictively, what Harry would do if she went off right now, found the King and _fucked_ him in a linen closet. She wondered what Norfolk would do, other than applaud. She wondered what her mother would do, other than admonish her for acting like a laundress. Mary would cry. 

Anne leaned in and kissed him gently. Percy grabbed her by the waist and pulled her against his body, deepening their kiss and threading his tongue into her mouth.

The skin of his eyelids was nearly translucent in its pallor. Anne studied the minute arches of his long eyelashes and how the tension in his eyebrows melted away as she wound her arms around his neck.

Anne hadn’t kept her eyes open when kissing a man since she was thirteen, half drunk, and had decided smashing her lips against some very lovely pageboy’s fat mouth was a good idea. 

She didn’t want to think about why she was doing it again now.

Anne and Harry were still savoring a few more moments of each other’s company, dallying beneath a proud hunting tapestry with a trapped unicorn encircled by twenty hunting dogs when _cet homme_ made his presence known. Anne felt his arrival by the desire of her eyes to turn away from Harry to peer over her right shoulder and by how he looked past her and stiffened. 

_No you don’t,_ Anne thought at the both of them.

Anne whipped around and dropped into a curtsy, grinding her teeth in frustration.

“Lord Percy,” The King said in greeting, ignoring Anne. “A lovely morning isn’t it?”

“Indeed, your highness,” Harry replied nervously. 

“In such lovely company,” _Cet homme_ nodded to Anne. “I must say, my lord, I find myself rather displeased-and I’d dare say I’m not the only one-that you keep Mistress Boleyn all for yourself.” 

“Your ‘ighness,” Anne interrupted . “Aaare ‘ou eell?”  
“I beg your pardon?” The King replied. 

“And we must beg yours,” Anne responded, seizing the opportunity. “I am taking Lord Percy with me to the gardens and we must excuse ourselves. I _do so enjoy_ being in his keeping that I would not part with him this morning.”

The King looked at her for a moment before he cocked his head to the side, smiled softly and nodded.

“Very good, Mistress Boleyn,” He replied. “ _Very good.”_

If anything the King’s response made Harry more concerned than he already was.

“He’s toying with you, Anne!” The blonde young man cried as they paced the hedges. “It’s like you're a bear in a bating pit and he’s the one ordering the hounds on you.”

“You don’t zink I know _that_?” Anne hissed and shushed him. She glanced around the maze furtively, feeling her head sliding automatically to her left.

 _Tu es un nourrisson peu assuré-You are an insecure infant,_ Anne thought. 

“And he's toying with me!” Harry Percy huffed. “He’s mocking me! He might as well just say ‘I’ll allow it for _now.’_ Honestly, Anne. What are we supposed to do?”

“Let him play his games, Henry,” She replied softly. Carefully, she took his hand. “He will move to another soon enough.”

She lifted his hand up to her mouth, looked up at him through her lashes and gently kissed his knuckles. He had pale, heavily calloused hands that were plump and heavy within her own.

“I will not consider another unless you forsake me, Henry,” Anne told him. She gently kissed him. It was nothing more than a dry peck to the side of his mouth. He did not brighten up but managed to smile half-heartedly at her. Anne didn’t like that.

When she leaned back in to kiss him again he pulled away. 

“We ought to go.” He murmured, not looking at her. “Wolsey will be expecting me.”

“Harry,” Anne said. “If you do not trust in my love for you zen trust in _my honor_.”

“I will try, my love.” He replied. 

With that they parted.

Anne lingered for a moment before slowly walking toward where her eyes led her. She tucked her hands behind her back and gritted her jaw, stoking her fury until it was a rolling boil in her belly. When she rounded the corner, she found _cet homme,_ George and Charles Brandon slinking away.

“Gentlemen!” Anne called after them. “What’s your ‘urry?”

George’s face went as white as a ghost when he looked over at his shoulder at her. Brandon’s eyes were saucers, darting between the King and Anne. _Cet homme_ turned slowly around to face her. 

“Why are you _creeping_ away, your ‘ighness?” Anne growled, marching right up to him. “What ‘ave you got to ‘ide?”

“Mistress Boleyn…” The King began before cut him off. 

“ _‘Ow dare you?”_ She shrieked at him. _“What gives you ze right to listen around corners like some serving girl?”_

“Mistress Boleyn….” The King tried again.

“‘Ow dare you be so arrogant to zink zat you are ze center of _my world_ ?” Anne yelled. “ _‘_ Ow day you treat me as some pet to be thrown between owners? ‘ _Ow dare you insult Harry!”_

“You are not a pet, _Madame,”_ The King snapped back. “You are a woman.”

“And _zis_ ees is ‘ow you treat your women?” Anne screamed, flying at him. 

She stopped when they were toe to toe, glaring up at him, hands curled into fists. George had stepped toward her one hand out and a panicked expression on his face. 

_Treason,_ Anne reminded herself. _Treason._

She cocked her head to the side and dropped her voice to a low whisper. 

“Zank god you are the King.” She murmured, tilting her chin down and looking up at him through her lashes. “For eef you were not I zink you would ‘ave to pay to even talk to one.”

“You think I already don’t have to?” The King snarled back at her. “Do not take me for a fool, Mistress Boleyn.”

“And so you zink to buy yourself another whore?” Anne hissed, reeling back as if she’d been slapped and baring her teeth.

“If you were a whore, Mistress Boleyn,” The King nearly shouted at her. “I’d have just asked for your price!”

“You couldn’t afford me,” Anne barked out a laugh. “Zere’s nothing you ‘ave zat worz my hymen.”

“ _My God, woman._ Why do you think I’m wooing you?” The King bellowed. 

“Well, eesn’t zat ze great mystery?” Anne replied at equal volume. 

“Anne,” George interjected. 

“You truly don’t know?” The King asked, brows knitting together and voice growing soft. Anne cackled at him, holding his gaze. He looked something close to hurt. 

“Anne,” The King said carefully. “What do you want from me?”

“‘Ave you not been _listening_ ?” Anne screeched. “You ‘ave nothing in zis entire country zat could _buy me_.”

“Have you not been listening, Madame?” The King responded, voice growing cold. “I am _wooing_ you.”

“Wooing?” Anne shouted, untroubled by the hardening of his eyes in her rage. “A suitor respects his rivals. You ‘ave no respect for anyone other than _yourself._ ”

“I will remind you that I am _the King_ ,” _Cet homme_ informed her. 

“ _Yes,_ ” Anne spat. “Eef you were any ozzer man I would be telling your lovely wife about what you’ve done today. You wield your God given power as if it makes your sins respectable. You live as if you ‘ave no need for a confessor, your ‘ighness.”

“Madame,” The King replied. “Clearly the heat has….”

“Yet I am not the one with zrobbing temples,” Anne laughed wildly. 

“Anne,” The King hissed. “ _I am the King_.”

“If you were any ozzer man I would ‘ave struck you across the face,” Anne snapped. 

“Is it such a crime to study _my rival_ ?” _Cet homme_ spat.

“You call spying on me studying?” Anne replied. “My god, should I start stuffing my keyhole when I dress to stop you looking zrough it?”

“That would be unchivalrous,” The King spluttered out, cheeks going red. 

“You are _unchivalrous_ ,” Anne reminded him.

“What have I done to you to make you think that of me?” He asked, mouth agape.

“Leave me and ‘Arry alone.” Anne ordered. “Your ‘ighness.”

“Alone?” _Cet homme_ chuckled. “I think your brother might have some complaint with that.”

Anne glared over at George who nodded and mumbled some agreement or other, determinedly not looking at his sister.

“Yet,” Anne replied. “I doubt he’d ‘ave the stomach to complain if you appeared in my bed tonight. In fact, he’d celebrate. Wouldn’t you, George?”

Her brother whimpered and stared up at her with terrified eyes. The King grabbed her by the shoulder, stepping close to her. He looked down at her before he spoke. 

“I dislike having to take you from him, Anne,” He informed her. “Yet I have a much greater dislike for not having your time.”

“You have had more time zan any other man in zis court for two weeks!” Anne shrieked, put her hands on his chest and shoved him away from her with one final burst of ragel. “You dare say you ‘ave some claim on me? Let me tell you, your ‘ighness, there is no man on zis earth with a claim on my heart, my mind, my hymen. You royal fool. You zink zis is a game? A game of dice? Of cards?”

“No, Saint’s Fucking Blood, Anne.” The King yelled back at her. “You are not a damn toy. Haven’t I already said that?”

“Then cease treating me as one,” Anne snarled. “You want my attention? My time? Then stop stealing it from another!”

“What have I done to make you treat me like this?” The King asked, voice high and wavering.

“Zink, your ‘ighness,” Anne sneered before she curtsied. “I’m sure you’ll, hmm, come up with something.”

With that, Anne curtsied and made to storm off, only to have the King fall in step beside her. Anne glared at him which made him quickly look away, lift his chin and grit his jaw. 

“Leave him and I be,” Anne informed him flatly. “And perhaps I will find time for you.”

“Where and when?” The King snapped back. 

“I said _perhaps,_ ” Anne replied. She glanced behind her to see George and Brandon trailing along nervously. 

“And perhaps we ought to go hunting, Mistress Boleyn,” The King said.

“Do you truly believe it is wise to threaten me, _your highness_?” Anne bit back, unable to keep the venom out of her voice. 

“I am not threatening you,” The King said, his voice soft and gentle. 

“Hmmph,” Anne grunted in reply. “You are not _daft_ enough to fail to realize just what that would do.”

“It seems I actually am,” The King informed her. 

_Bloody twat,_ Anne thought. 

“My reputation is in tatters,” Anne replied. “It is worse than Blount’s for there is not yet enough evidence for belief in her chastity to be extinguished.”

“But she is the one warming bed,” The King said, sounding confused. Anne stared at him in shock; in disgust; in _disbelief_. 

“A woman’s reputation is as important in the forging of a marriage as her hymen is in consummating it.” Anne told him. 

“I suppose,” _Cet homme_ responded, far too nonchalantly en l’avis d’Anne- _in Anne’s opinion_. She did not speak for a moment but when she opened her mouth, she chose her words carefully.

“You once said you wished to be gentle with me,” Anne said. “I would ask you to be gentle enough to consider my honor, my reputation and my chastity as you seek to woo me.”

“Very well,” The King agreed, bobbing his head. “I owe you an apology then.”

 _That was not I am sorry,_ Anne thought 

Mary barely spoke to her for the four days after their fight other than to say “yes” or “no” when Anne asked her a question like some kind of a petulant child. Her sister was a _wife_.

 _Who let you become one?_ Anne wondered. _Pour l’amour de la Sainte Vierge-for the love of the Virgin Mary, you’re barely a woman._

Once Anne managed to pry her sister back to her husband’s bed she’d have a moment’s peace in that room but, until then, Anne spent her nights dancing in the halls or drinking and gambling with her brother. 

She rarely lost.

“Damn it,” Bradon moaned, tossing his cards on the table. Anne’s response was to yawn and crack her neck. 

“Thank you, good sir, for ze drinking money,” Anne said. She knew she needed a week’s worth of sleep but, frankly, she’d rather be here, drunk enough to stop thinking.

“I’ll have to be off,” Compton announced, tossing his cards on the table. “The King’ll be done about now.”

“So quick?” Anne replied. Next to her, her brother spat up a bit of his wine as he tried to keep from laughing. 

“The Queen doesn’t appreciate the company when she sleeps.” Brandon said, clearly attempting to appear diplomatic despite the massive grin on his face.

“Very quick then,” Anne hummed. Brandon spluttered with laughter and George shoved his fist in his mouth.

“He’s actually not.” Compton replied.

“Well,” Anne said, wrinkling her nose. “I wouldn’t know nor would I care to.”

“From what I’ve heard, sitting outside his door,” Compton continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “He’s had no complaints.”

It was Anne’s turn to laugh, shaking her head back and forth. 

“You zink zose women aren’t coached?” Anne giggled. Compton glowered at her.

“Not all of us are _Boleyns,_ ” Brandon said softly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” George barked.

“Howards,” Anne replied, smiling softly at the blond man. “You mean Howards, not Boleyns.”

Anne didn’t think much about William Carey. She rarely saw him and rarely noticed him when he happened to enter her line of sight. Anne didn’t think her little sister had spoken to him once since she’d returned to court. 

_That would make everything all the more difficult,_ Anne thought, watching him laugh with one Sir Francis Bryan, as they walked quickly through the corridor. 

Anne had heard enough stories- _had met enough unhappily married women-_ to know that love was unlikely in a marriage unless you had la chance de diable- _the luck of the devil._ Or the favor of the Queen of France. 

Carey had to have agreed to Norfolk’s plot months ago, perhaps believing he would gain more from it than he could from having Mary as a wife. Anne wouldn’t like being married to him, she didn’t think, but, then again, he seemed like a simple enough man. The odds were better that she would have had him pinned under her shoe even before the wedding than Mary having even spoken to him.

Then the King would have had to acquire her in the same manner as Romulus and Augustus acquired their wives. 

Anne’s chest flushed at the thought but she refused to dwell on it, shoving a finger in her mouth and biting at a scab. 

If her parents had had a lick of sense; if they had _remembered they had an elder daughter,_ or if they had cared enough, Anne would have been his wife. No, she’d been for Butler. But why did Mary have to go to the altar first? 

The little blonde had _time._

 _Fifteen,_ Anne thought. _Pah. Neither of us are Princesses and Mary was more like a twelve year old than a woman proper._

_I only started courting when I was fifteen._

Anne wondered if that had been a mistake.

 _No,_ She decided. _No, if they had let me be in France it wouldn’t have mattered. No one would have known that Mary married first. And I’d be a duchess. Then the fact that Mary and her_ _haughty blooded, débiteur-deptor,_ _jumped up farmer of a husband married first wouldn’t have mattered one bit._

They hadn’t done that, though. 

Anne barely saw the King at all for the next few days other than when he was with his wife. They had every meal together and he went to her bed every night. 

“Why hasn’t she told him yet?” Mary asked suddenly, watching the King and his Queen as they dined in state. George had told Mary, because _of course he had_.

 _Thank god,_ Anne thought, _you’ve finally stopped tantruming._

“She can’t be certain yet,” Anne replied, rolling her eyes. “She’s only missed her blood twice, maybe three times.”

“So they still lie together,” Mary commented. Anne fought the urge to scream. 

“Yes,” She ground out through her gritted teeth. “Incase she’s wrong.”

“Do you think he’s guessed?” Mary inquired, curiously. “Is that why he’s so attentive to her?”

“He was just as attentive when he was visiting various _‘ouses_ more often than her bed,” Anne sighed.

“Why would she risk the child if she suspected?” Mary asked. Anne closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose. 

“Elle ne connaît pas s’elle serait enceinte et s’elle serait mauvais puis elle gâchait le temps- _she doesn’t know if there’s a child yet and if she’d wrong then she’s wasted time_ ,” Anne hissed back, dropping her voice into a whisper. “ Et elle n’avait pas longue si Norfolk obtiendrait- _she doesn’t have long if Norfolk gets_ -his way _._ ”

“We shouldn’t talk about this now, Anne.” Mary replied.

“No one speaks French, _darling._ ” Anne sneered. 

That was when the King decided to look over at the two sisters. 

_Why?_ Anne thought as she looked over at Mary. _Just, why? The both of you deserve each other, I swear to God._

The King smiled at the two for a moment and Mary blushed, looking down at her feet. Anne fought the urge to slap herself across the forehead. She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow at him. That only made his grin double in size. 

Catherine of Aragorn made Anne, Mary and Bessie Blount walk behind her at Mass that very afternoon. Bessie, the tallest of the three, walked between the two shorter Boleyn sisters. The dress she had chosen made her look plump despite the fact she was not. Anne supposed it was the english neckline and the fuller english skirts. Mary was thin enough that it only enhanced the curve of her body. Anne wore a looser French dress with a higher neckline than the other two. It concealed her breasts but made her look taller than she was. Her talons aiguilles helped. 

_Good lord, woman,_ Anne thought grumpily. _How often is he riding you that you think he’d have a bloody harem?_

Then she had to bite back a laugh. The King had to be _extremely_ quick if he took his Spanish wife more than once a night. Perhaps she should get Blount drunk and see if the blonde would talk.

Anne glanced over at the smiling girl, studying her little upturned nose and high cheekbones. _She looks a bit like Nan Gainesville_ , Anne realised with a start. _Except prettier._

Blount noticed her staring and wiggled her eyebrows at Anne. The dark haired Boleyn bit back a laugh and inclined her head to the other. Then she looked very deliberately at Catalina D’Aragona. 

Blount snorted and rolled her pretty blue eyes, nearly making Anne choke on her own spit as they met the King’s gentlemen outside the chapel. 

“My lady,” The King bowed to his wife. She and the rest of her ladies curtsied. 

Anne watched him watch her and smiled gently. 

“Your highness,” The Queen said. She took his arm and together, united they walked into the church. Anne kept her eyes fixed on the back of his redhead.

 _Would you like taking me the Roman way?_ She wondered suddenly. _Or would being a wife stealer be too unchivalrous?_

If they’d have married her to Butler, she would have told _cet homme_ just before they left for Ireland, Anne realised suddenly. 

_Bloody hell,_ She thought, pushing the image of being hauled away and having her dress torn from her body out of her mind. _Tu es dans un église-you’re in a church-for fucks sake._

As the King and Queen knelt before the altar to start the service, he looked over his shoulder at her, watching as she took her place in the pew. She tilted her chin down and peered back at him through her lashes. The King’s face went red and he looked away. 

As Anne sat down she saw that her sister was smiling happily down at her lap. Anne shut her eyes so the whole church would see them rolling in their sockets.

 _You’re both lucky you're beautiful,_ Anne thought cynically. 

The King found her later that very afternoon, walking through one of the smaller halls of Hampton, her lips kiss-bruised from an encounter with Harry Percy. She had sweat on her hairline and her wetness and his spit staining her thighs. 

_Cet homme_ had changed his doublet since mass, wearing the white one with the yellow flowers and vines. 

“Mistress Boleyn,” He said, eyes narrowing as he looked her over. 

“Your ‘ighness,” Anne replied. “Her highness missed you at lunch today.”

“I had business to attend to.” The King informed her bruskly.

“Oh,” Anne said. “Are you launching another warship?”

“No,” The King told her. “It was just a meeting with the Emperor’s Ambassador.”

“Very good, your ‘ighness,” Anne responded. He bowed slightly to her and began to walk away.

“Your ‘ighness,” Anne called after him. “My brother, myself and some of our friends are playing cards in his chamber tomorrow evening. Perhaps your highness would like to come?”

The King looked back at her for a moment and then smiled rather beautifully. 

“You know, Anne,” He said. “I think I will.”

Anne was waiting for her sister in their room after the feast. Mary had stayed out late dancing and making merry with a few of the other women and a gentleman or two. None of them were her husband. Anne was already in her nightgown, reading. She looked up when Mary entered and then looked back at her.

“I have something for you,” Anne said.

“What?” Mary replied sharply. 

“I fixed up one of your old shifts,” Anne told her. “It’s on the pillow.”

She heard Mary walk over and pick up the cloth. Anne looked up, watching her sister as she looked over the needlework on the collar. 

“Who’d you pay to do this?” Mary asked. Anne looked back down at her book when her sister glanced over.

“I did it myself,” Anne said flatly. “It wasn’t worth spending money on.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I just want to say thank to the 250 or so people that are here for every single chapter! Secondly, thank you to everyone who's left comments, like holy cow guys, ya'll are awesome!!!! Thirdly, I'm probably going to slow down quite a bit after this chapter as I'm trying to get the second chapter of Purgatory out. Or so I hope. 
> 
> Fourthly, Anne's going to be lashing out at Mary regularly in the coming chapters so brace yourself for her to get really nasty. In the second chapter, Anne thinks about how Mary was married first and that's will be major theme in their relationship from here on out. Based off The Taming Of The Shrew and something Anne says in The Other Boleyn Girl, having a younger daughter marry before her elder sister is....kind of insulting for the older one? Actually, that's minimizing it. It basically implies that the older sister is unfit to be a wife and a mother, which was a big deal back in the day. In my opinion, Anne's anger (and fear) is justified but she's taking it out on the wrong person at the moment because she can't handle émotions.  
> Fifthly (because, yes, that is apparently a word), Henry is absolutely a jealous, little brat who's not used to getting called out for it. He'd also drop kick Harry Percy out of the country if he could.  
> Sixthly (yes, also a word. English is a rather unfortunate language, isn't it?), according to Suetonius (and Wikipedia), Caligula, after ordering Livia Orestilla to divorce her husband on their wedding day and marrying her himself, said that he "had acquired a new wife in the tradition of Romulus and Augustus, who had stolen rives from other men." Applause for anyone who catches the other Caligula reference in chapter six.  
> Seventhly, some of the way Henry talks is based off Tonight I can write the saddest of lines by Oxford99. It's a great fic and you should absolutely check it out!
> 
> Edit: I forgot to add: William Carey was actually the 3rd cousin of the King and dead in so much debt that Mary had to pawn her jewels off before Anne got her a pension.


	10. July 1512: A broodmare named Catherine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You really are hell, aren’t you?” He asked.

Jane Seymour always seemed to ride in front of Anne and her friends, forcing Anne to look at the long, loose braid she wore down her back. It was half undone by the time the court stopped to picnic and near flowing down her back by the end of the hunt. Anne wasn’t certain if it was to attract a husband but, if it was, the pretty girl had clearly forgotten that a fiance would have to see how her loose hair stuck to her sweaty cheeks. 

She also wore no cap. How her milky skin hadn’t burned under the summer sun, Anne did not know. 

She also didn’t much care. 

Jane Seymour was just annoying to look at. 

Mary Boleyn was simply annoying. 

George had made an excellent decision and not told Norfolk about her fight with the King but had then made a collassaly stupid one and invited Mary to cards. 

_Two horses,_ Anne thought, tearing a hangnail off. _Damn you all to hell._

The little spurt of pain made the King flinch from where he was sitting across from Anne, in between Mary and George. He was resting his right elbow on the table and looked quickly at that thumb. Anne bit at the hangnail on her right thumb again, tasting the tang of her blood. Mary wrinkled her nose at her. 

“Shall we begin?” Brandon asked, shuffling the cards. 

“I’ll deal,” George offered. 

“I’ve got the cards,” Brandon replied.

“You cheat,” George replied. Brandon wasn’t smart enough to cheat but he _was_ smart enough to know not to even try with the King sitting two seats away from him. 

“No I don’t!” He spluttered. 

“Pass the wine, Mary” Anne ordered. Her sister did. It was empty. 

The King took a long drink from his glass and then suddenly spat up the wine. Her throat iched and ached as the King hacked and gagged. She cleared it as subtly as she could. 

“I didn’t know you watered your wine.” He coughed out. 

“Your highness,” George began, clearly embarrassed. 

“He doesn’t,” Anne replied. “Brandon, pass me that bottle.” 

Brandon handed over the bottle of wine he’d been hoarding for himself. Anne poured it into her glass and took a sip. It was watered down. 

“Georgie?” Anne asked sweetly. 

“Yes, Anne?” George replied.

“Why have you watered down _Burgundian wine_?” Anne asked. Her brother looked between Anne and the King quickly. The King smiled mildly at him, eyes boring into her brother, and Anne fought the urge to snort in amusement. 

“And here I was told that these little gatherings were very merry.” The King said softly. 

“We’re normally three bottles in by now,” Brandon informed _cet homme_ cheerily. 

“Well, I thought….” George began. “Mary doesn’t drink very often and Anne has, a, ummm, had a rather foul mouth after a few cups.”

“I do _not_ ,” Anne snapped back. 

“Yes you do,” Brandon said. “Not as foul as your brother’s I’ll give you but...”

“I drink less than half of what you two do,” Anne reminded the gentleman. 

“And you curse four times as well,” Brandon replied.

“Your inability to understand basic English , Mr. Brandon,” Anne sniffed. “Is more an insult to your intellect than a complement to mine.” 

“It seems we are going to be very merry this evening,” The King said conversationally, looking at Mary. 

“Yes, your highness,” Mary replied. “Our house motto ought to be the most merry.”

“I’ll fetch another bottle.” George announced and got up.

“Thank you, Georgie!” Anne called after him.

“Right, would someone tell me where that came from?” The King asked, looking at Anne with an easy, comfortable grin. 

“Our mother gave us all nicknames when we were children,” Mary told him. “I was Maryanne; Anne was Annamarie and George was Georgie”

“I didn’t know that.” The King replied, looking over at Mary with, sipping his horrid wine.

“Yes,” Mary continued. “I didn’t even know Anne’s name was Anne until I was seven. No one ever used it. She was always Annamarie and I was always Maryanne.” 

The King looked at Anne and smirked, raising his eyebrows speculatively, as if he was looking over some new, pleasing, hunting dog.

Anne fought the urge to flip the table or pick up the bottle by her hand and throw it in his face. The first time she remembered being called _that_ awful nickname was when she was nine or ten. It had been Mary, because of course it had, tugging at her sleeve when Anne had failed to respond the the stupid thing.

“How old were you?” Anne asked, her voice amused. “How old were you when you realized your name was actually Mary?”

“I’ve always known,” Mary spluttered and glared at her, cheeks red in embarrassment. 

“I was Harry,” _Cet homme_ comment. “Charles was Charlie and Will was, well, _Will_.” 

“He hasn’t changed much, has he?” Charles chuckled, dealing the cards out to each of them. 

“Still spotty and skinny as a racing dog.” The King replied. “I think he’s finally figured out he can’t grow a beard, though.”

“Can you?” Anne bit back. Compton was a pleasant enough man and had lost more than a few purses to her, someone ought to speak up for him.

The spite spluttering in her belly just happened to make her the ideal candidate. 

“I’m sorry?” The King replied. 

“Can you grow one, your ‘ighness?” Anne cocked her head to the side, smiled, and asked. The King leaned back in his chair and chuckled. 

“Would you like to find out?” _Cet homme_ replied. “La Anna _?_ ”

“Yes,” Anne snorted. “Yes I would, _Hal_.”

George came back into the room, clasping two bottles of wine in each hand. 

“Hal?” Brandon asked, eyes wide. 

“Your wine, my lady.” George said as he set the freshly uncorked bottles on the table. 

“Thank you,” Anne said before turning back to Brandon. 

“That’s what I call him,” Anne shrugged. 

“And I call her _La Anna.”_ The King interjected, rather helpfully.

Charles Brandon blinked slowly and smiled tightly down at his hand of cards. 

“Alright then,” He said. 

Mary was also looking determinedly down at her cards.

“Who’s going first?” The King asked cheerily.

George raised both of his eyebrows at Anne. 

“ _La Anna_ ,” The King said in lieu of a proper hello. Anne had been sitting in a stairwell, trying to read when he appeared behind her. Anne hopped up, rather clumsily and curtsied. 

“Your ‘ighness,” Anne replied. 

“You have a rather awful habit of appearing out of thin air,” He said. 

“And your ‘ighness has a rather awful habit of disturbing me.” Anne replied. The King smiled unpleasantly and shook his head.

“You really are hell, aren’t you?” He asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Anne replied, eyebrows crawling up her forehead. 

“Confusing,” He amended. “You’re confusing.”

“Is your ‘ighness truly confused by the existence of a woman who does not adore him?” Anne asked. 

“You shriek at me like a harpy and then, four days later, you invite me to cards.” He said, stating the obvious, something that was rather unhelpful en l’avis d’Anne- _in Anne’s opinion_. “And then when I arrive you treat me as if nothing happened.”

“You asked for my time,” Anne reminded him. “I offered it to you.”

The King nodded his head and clasped his hands in front of him, unconsciously standing with his legs spread wide et ses épaules ont mis dans- _and his shoulders thrown-_ back. The change of stance made him look plus large que- _larger than-_ he was. 

“In exchange for your freedom with Lord Percy,” _Cet homme_ replied cynically. 

_Yes,_ Anne thought. _But no._

Anne simply looked at the man standing in front of her for a moment. He had a pale face, skin unburnt and untanned by the sun, a pretty mouth and red hair that was inching toward a paler ginger color.

“Not quite,” She said, truthfully. “Do you really think I would tolerate your wooing if I only tolerated _you_?”

“For some reason,” The King scoffed, looking away, up the stairs from whence he’d come. “I’d like to think you wouldn’t, no matter what your family said.”

“They’ve had a lot to say.” Anne informed him. Immediately, cet homme’s head snapped back around. His eyes were hard, cold and furious.

 _He’s like a cannon,_ Anne realized. _Set the fuse and_ _you have death spread out in front of you as far as the eye can see._

“What?” He asked. “What have they said?” 

“When betting on horses, your highness,” Anne said. “It is best to choose two as your odds are _higher_.”

“I suppose,” The King replied. “But the only men I’ve seen gamble like that are the ones who can’t afford to lose.”

 _Now,_ Anne paused before she opened her mouth to respond. _Wasn’t that a thought?_

“I never thought it would be this exhausting.” The King sighed suddenly, looking at the wall behind her. 

Anne clasped her hands behind her back to keep from biting an already mangled cuticle. Then Anne summoned up her courage and opened her mouth. 

“Being King?” Anne asked. 

“No,” He replied, smiling his handsome half smile at her. “I rather like that part. I like it a lot.”

 _So that is why Mary loved you,_ Anne thought. _A pity it’s only an illusion._

“Then?” Anne pushed. 

“ _This,_ ” He told her, voice going high as he waved one hand in the air. “I should have known when Parliament blocked the first bill. I should have known when half the chapel disappeared before Plantagenant walked in. I should _have known_ ….”

He stopped abruptly, looked down the staircase and shook his head again. 

“You don’t find me exhausting?” Anne inquired.

“No,” He snorted. “You’re rather invigorating, actually. Somehow.”

“And ‘ere I thought I was _confusing_.” Anne replied flatly.

“It’s a rather new sensation, I’ll admit,” _Cet homme_ told her. 

“Newness is always invigorating,” Anne said and lifted her finger to her mouth to begin to chew on the nail. “And confusing.”

The King’s response was to spring forward and grab her hand.

“You’ve made a mess of yourself, haven’t you?” _Cet homme_ asked, looking her scabbed over, mangled fingers. Then he kissed her knuckles. 

“Define mess.” Anne said. He looked up at her, mouth still pressed to her skin. 

“The destruction of something lovely,” He replied smoothly. Anne raised an eyebrow. Elle a été impressionné légèrement par la réponse rapide- _she was mildly impressed by the quick response._ “And you, little creeper, are certainly lovely.”

 _So this,_ Anne thought. _Is why Mary loves you. Saint’s Blood, how blind is she?_

“Not as lovely as you certainly,” Anne replied. “Though, I fear, your highness is told it much too often.”

“I actually don’t think anyone’s ever said that before.” The King told her.

“Has anyone ever called you beautiful?” Anne asked. The King’s face went red and he spluttered, still bent slightly over Anne’s hand. Carefully she pulled her hand from his grip and slid her fingers along the right side of his jaw, lifting his chin up. She pressed her fingers against the soft spot where the bone met his throat and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. 

_Good to know,_ Anne thought, though she didn’t want to think about why she would need to know that. 

“Very ‘andsome,” Anne hummed softly. His cheeks turned a fetching pink. 

Then, carefully she walked her fingers back more slowly and felt something odd. She tilted his chin higher and examined the little scar just on the inside of his jawbone. 

“What have you done here?” Anne asked and let him go, only to cup his cheek, making sure to press her pinky and ring fingers against that little spot.

“I fell from a tree when I was six,” The King told her. “It was the only time I was ever whipped.”

Anne would have been a baby, if she’d been born. 

“You must have been a mess,” Anne mused. “So horrible that such a lovely thing was damaged but, zen, all lovely things are damaged in time.” 

“Not if we protect them,” The King replied softly. “Not if we cherished them.”

“You were cherished, weren’t you, until you were crowned?” Anne asked impulsively. “And protected?”

“Why?” The King said and pulled his chin from her hand, standing to his full height.

“I’m curious,” Anne told him. 

“Aren’t all children cherished?” He replied.

“Some are,” Anne looked him straight in the eye as she spoke, her voice falling into its normal accent. “Many are ‘urt or used. Some are lucky, zey are prepared for ze world.” 

“Tell me of your childhood then.” The King replied. 

“Eet was spent in France, after a year or so in ze Nezerlands,” Anne shrugged. “Now tell me of yours.”

“You’re rather talented at that, Mistress Boleyn,” _Cet homme_ said. “I feel as if I am close to you but you are as distant as ever.”

“A talent your ‘ighness ‘as also cultivated.” Anne replied. “And I zink you will be a master soon enough.”

Then she looked down at her shoes, pulled what little courage still remained in her belly, peered up at him à travers ses cils- _through her eyelashes-_ and spoke.

“The first memory I ‘ave of my brozzer is from when I was eight,” Anne told him. “I didn’t ‘ave a lonely childhood, I don’t zink, just one wizzout many ozzer children.”

He seemed taken aback by the admission, opening his mouth but finding himself unable to reply, distracted by the sound of someone running up the stairs toward them. A young page appeared, looked between them, bowed and quickly scampered off.

“I ‘eard you were raised with your sisters.” Anne prompted. 

“Yes,” _Cet homme_ told her. “We were in the same nursery under our mother’s care. She taught all of us, even Arthur, to write. My father taught us French. I used to drive Giles, uh, my French tutor, mad with my accent. I remember, one time, he went and complained to my mother about it, who, in turn, went to my father who had Giles join us for dinner. We only spoke French.”

He laughed at himself, high and so loud that Anne thought it could be heard at the bottom of the stairs. She looked down, half expecting to see someone or something crawling up them 

“Come now, we Bretons aren’t zat ‘ard to understand.” Anne replied dryly. _Cet homme_ shook his head back and forth.

“How'd you know my father lived in Brittany?” He asked.

“Ze Bretons like to brag,” Anne shrugged.

“Did your mistress?” The King asked.

“No,” Anne replied. “At least no what you would call bragging. Nozzing she claimed about herself was untrue so to speak.”

The King simply stared down at her for a few moments before he smiled broadly. 

“She was a caring woman who looked after all of us but,” Anne continued, tilting her head sardonically back at him. “I zink you would call her a strict taskmaster.”

“Why?”

“I never ‘ad time to climb trees.”

Anne wouldn’t have ever climbed a tree anyways, it could have torn her dresses.

“Perhaps I shall take you to see my favorite tree when we return to Eltham,” _Cet homme_ mused, grinning down implishly at her. 

“Please don’t,” Anne replied flatly. The King laughed but then his eyes widened. 

“And what would be my punishment if I did?” The King asked.

“My mild displeasure.” Anne told him, raising his eyebrow. 

“Well, I have already faced and survived much worse than that from you,” He reminded her. “I don’t fear that anymore.”

“Your bravery and nobility ‘as captivated me, _Hal,_ ” Anne replied sarcastically. “I must ‘ave you.”

“Has anyone ever told you how cruel you are, Anna?” The King shook his head st her. 

“Are you truly offended?” She responded. 

“No,” He said. “I’m not.”

Anne and Harry Percy were left to dance and dally and dance as they pleased. In the evenings before the feast started, Anne would lie, tucked into his side, in bed. They would spend the peaceful hours watching the sunset from the window in his rooms after they’d brought each other pleasure with kisses to the secret places of their bodies. Anne would sit atop her lover's face and ride his mouth. She would lie across his body, tie her hair back avec une bande de cuir- _with a strap of leather_ , work him with her hands and suck him. 

The sunset was a bloody red that evening as she lay, half undressed, only her socks, her shift and her kirtle covering her skin. Anne lay, dozing, for nearly twenty minutes before Harry spoke.

“You are my home, Anne,” He told her. “I wouldn’t give you up for a crown.”

Anne startled and tenses, _cet homme’s_ face and the stupid, new, deep blue doublet he had worn that day flashing behind her eyes. It brought out his brilliant, beautiful, sun lightened hair. 

“Good,” Anne replied, the word elongated by her yawn. “I don’t want to be Queen.”

“Yet you act as if you were born to be one,” Harry replied. He sounded amused. Anne looked up at him to see him smiling happily down at her. “You illuminate everything Anne.”

“It ees because I am in love,” She told him, fighting to keep from scowling. 

_Why on earth would you say that?_ Anne wondered. _You’ve cursed me. I swear, Harry. Did no one tell you how to choose your words?_

“Something worth more than a crown,” Harry replied. She remembered what she had said to her mistress a lifetime ago.

_Je désire le pouvoir._

Yet Harry had power, more than any she had ever tasted. 

_I will not sin more than this,_ Anne thought. She knew very well that that would one day be a lie. 

Mary either sat at the Queen’s feet sewing away or sat in their room sewing away, pretty eyes downturned and pale neck exposed. Anne had clattered into the room one evening and tossed aside her stilettos and pulled a pair of slippers on. She’d already known that she’d be going to George’s rooms. 

The King was not going to be there.

“Where are you going?” Mary asked her as she snatched up her money bag, looking over her shoulder at Anne with her large, grey eyes. 

“Gambling,” Anne told her. “Where are _you_ going?”

“I’m staying here.” Mary asked. “Are you going with Harry?”

“No,” Anne snapped, cheeks heating up in frustration as she made for the door. Then she stopped. 

“You should go drinking with Madge,” Anne suggested offhandedly. She would likely be able to convince her cousin to take Mary for an evening in exchange for returning the money she’d inevitably lose to Anne.

 _Bribe,_ Anne hated the sound of it. _She’d have to bribe Madge._

Yet she hated having Mary in her room even more. 

There were mornings during the early parts of July when Anne wasn’t certain whether it was her hangover or Hal’s that made her head ache and her stomach churn. It was probably _cet homme’s_. 

Almost certainly _cet homme’s_.

Mary always overslept the morning after they played cards, which was nearly every morning, come to think of it, but Anne rose early, as was her custom. 

The Queen had taken to summoning her and Bessie Blount to wait on her every morning and night, keeping Anne from Harry Percy and Bessie from the Queen’s husband. Needless to say, the both of them were mildly irritated, or, rather, Anne was exceptionally _amused_ and Blount was peeved.

“Anne? ” The blonde asked one morning as they were leaving the Queen. 

“Yes?” Anne replied.

“This is getting ridiculous isn’t it?” Bessie grumbled. 

“Unsuccessful intimidation is always ridiculous,” Anne hummed. 

“What?” Bessie asked, clearly confused. 

“I’m sorry?” Anne replied, stopping and cocking her head to look at Bessie with wide eyes. 

The blonde looked less tired than she had in June yet George had been happy to confirm she was still a regular guest in the King’s bed.

“When I’m trying to intimidate you, you’ll know,” Blount said. Anne’s eyebrows shot up her forehead but then she smiled pleasantly at the blonde. 

“Yes, I’m sure I will,” Anne replied dryly. “Given subtlety and you seem to ‘ave never been acquainted.”

“You call anything you’ve done subtly?” Bessie scoffed. “You parade around as if you are the Queen herself.”

“Thank god I’m not,” Anne smirked. “I pity that poor woman, you know. Driven to baring her belly to our fangs. How awful.”

“I pity you, Mistress Boleyn,” Bessie replied. 

“But not yourself?” Anne asked, smiling at her.

“You think yourself so grand as to claim you are better than I am.” Blount began.

“Oh, no,” Anne cut her off, shrugging. “We’re both whores in the eyes of the world, Bess.”

“Then why would you make me your enemy?” Bessie snapped.

“I’m not.” Anne replied. “I have little interest in rivalry.”

“Then why…..?” Blount sputtered. Anne looked at her for a moment and thought. “I wasn’t trying to intimidate you.”

Anne looked at the embarrassed, full mouthed blond, trying to parcel out what was going on in her head. The girl wasn’t a fool. Anne doubted _cet homme_ would have wanted her if she was as daft as Mary.

But then again he had wanted Mary. 

“I,” Bess continued, looking at Anne rather earnestly. “I just think it’s ridiculous that we barely speak to one another. We, well, I suppose I got this idea into my head that we might be friends, given our shared circumstances and all that.”

 _I wouldn’t trust you with my waist bucket,_ Anne thought.

“It’s a rather good one,” Anne replied neutrally. “At the very least we ought to make these mornings more bearable for each other.”

“They’re awful aren’t they,” Bess sighed. “How does she not know how to dress herself? Honestly.”

“Come now,” Anne said. “She’s the Queen. She was taught mighty things such as constance, tolerance and generosity not the mundane things you and I learned.” 

The Queen _was_ nothing if not a constant, wary, polite and generous Mistress. 

Not as generous as Anne de la Bretagne but, then again, _her_ husband had never been foolish enough to make _her_ ladies into whores. Nor had he wanted too. 

“Mistress Boleyn,” Catalina D’Aragona said one morning as she broke her fast. “Is your sister still in bed?”

Anne looked around the room in confusion. Mary was, indeed, missing.

 _Well,_ She thought begrudgingly for she had not noticed her sister’s absence. _Rather impressive, your highness._

“I do not know, your ‘ighness.” Anne replied carefully. “I ‘ave not seen her since I awoke.”

 _Have not seen her,_ Anne thought. _This morning. I should have said “this morning.”_

“Go and fetch her, please.” The Queen said. Anne curtsied and did so. 

As Anne walked, she smiled as she had a sudden, _wonderful_ , idea. 

Mary arrived late for her duties every day a week after her elder sister conveniently forgot to wake her. It made the Queen watch them more closely than ever but she started summoning Mary rather than Anne. 

The elder Boleyn only felt extremely smug about that.

She also felt extremely smug when she managed to corner William Carey in a corner of the feasting hall. 

“Master Carey,” Anne said in greeting. 

“Mistress Boleyn,” He replied coolly. She felt the sudden urge to look to her right but fought it. 

“I find myself in need of a dancing partner,” Anne told him. “And I prefer dancing with the best.”

Carey scoffed but offered her his arm anyways.

“What do you want Boleyn?” He asked.

“Why would you assume I want anything?” Anne replied softly. She looked over her shoulder to see the King look quickly away from her. He simply raised one eyebrow at her.

“Why else would you flatter me?” He said dryly.

“What do _you_ want, Master Carey?” Anne responded, looking him straight in the eye. Anne felt his hand jump on her arm and saw his Adam's Apple bob in his throat as he gulped.

 _Hmmm_ , Anne thought. _What’s this?_

“To drink in peace,” He said.

“Is that all you want?” Anne pushed back. “Nothing else?”

“My ambition’s brought me to drink,” He snapped. “So yes, all I want is a glass of wine.”

“It ‘as also made you my brother,” Anne reminded him. “A rather pleasant association, don’t you think?”

Carey glowered at her. 

“What did you want that ‘as driven you to drink?” Anne asked as they stepped on the dance floor. 

“Your father’s aide in getting a position abroad,” He replied before bowing to her as the music began. “Norfolk’s help getting a pension or some land. A woman from a fertile family.”

“My sister is a _very pretty_ woman.” Anne corrected him. “And yours by right.”

“Right?” He sneered at her as he spoke. “What right do we have to anything?”

“We have the right to what we _win_ ,” Anne informed him.

Anne was victorious the very next night, sweeping across the floor with Harry without a disturbance. 

_Two weeks_ , She realized as the music changed to a slow Almain. _It’s been two weeks._

Anne smiled at Harry Percy, her eyes fixed on his. She could see her long nose reflected in ses pupilles noires- _his black pupils_ -and she fought the urge to look away. 

He was sitting on the dias, laughing with George or Brandon, or, more likely, speaking gentle words of love to his queen. 

_He has to know by now,_ Anne thought. _The man can count after all._

She’d seen him count out the coins he’d lost to her the night before with the most petulant scowl. Anne had been drunk enough to cackle at him and snatch the money but not so intoxicated to suggest he start playing cards with the whores he fucked. 

Those women wouldn’t lose a single coin to him not when they worked so hard for them.

Anne felt her eyes drawn to the left, away from the dias as she spun away from Harry. 

The King lead Bessie Blount onto the dancefloor, smiling easily at the blond. His eyes flicked up to meet Anne’s. 

“What’s your horse’s name?” Anne asked the King. They were riding together in the very center of the hunt, framed on either side by George and Jane. Anne and the King were acting as some kind of a strange escort for _les amants-the lovers_ , literally riding between the two. 

All four were sweating from the last hour’s hard gallop at the front of the hunt, chasing after a troupeau des cerfs- _a herd of deer_. Jane had been the first to drop back with George quickly following behind his sweetheart. Anne had gone after her brother and the King followed her, as was his habit. 

She found she minded it less and less each day. 

“This one’s called Urien,” He told her and nodded to Anne’s mare. “What do you call your girl?”

Sweat suited the King, making his hair curl around the forehead and making his skin take on a bit of a pink flush. Anne, on the other hand, had to fight the urge to scratch at her scalp knowing her own hair would be frizzy and matted beneath her cap before the day was done. 

“Aphrodite.” She replied. His face took on a funny expression as he watched the tall, black horse toss her mane. “Why did you name him that?”

“I didn’t,” The King replied. “I don’t name them myself.”

“Who does?” Anne asked. 

“Isn’t it the stablemaster?” George interjected. “Or did Catherine pick that one?”

“I’m not sure with this one,” _Cet homme_ said. “If it’s after a knight of Camelot then it was Catherine.”

“Urien or _Orion_?” Anne asked. 

“Is there a difference?” Jane snorted. 

“ _Yes,_ ” Anne and George replied in unison. The King looked at Anne and then over at George and then at Jane. His face took on a pinched look but then he smiled. 

“I think it’s the former,” He said jovially. “That’s what? Some Arthurien knight for me? A French King for George. A, uhhh…”

“Pepper,” Jane told him, leaning forward and patting her dappled stallion on the neck. 

“Master Pepper for you, Lady Parker,” The King continued. “And a goddess for _La Anna._ ”

“What a fine company we make, _Hal._ ” Anne replied. 

“A mixed one,” Hal said, inclining his head toward her. 

Anne looked past _cet homme_ to see Mary and her pretty grey mare trot up on the other side of Jane Parker. 

Anne wished she’d never learned what her sister had named that broodmare. 

It was Catherine, after the Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a lying liar who lies. I've gotten exactly one half of a scene written for Purgatory and an entire chapter written for this. UGHHH.  
> In The Other Boleyn Girl Anne was called "Annamarie" and Mary was called "Maryanne" which, along with several other descriptors, showed that their family considered them to be interchangeable, something Anne vocally detested. I don't think this was historically true, just for the fact that the historical Boleyns seem to have been somewhat decent parents.  
> Given this version of Anne had far less exposure to her family than the Anne in The Other Boleyn Girl, she wouldn't be accustomed to the nickname (Helloooo Henry) but she still wouldn't like it.  
> An excerpt I found online from "The Private Lives of the Tudors: Uncovering the secrets of Britain's greatest dynasty" by Tracy Borman (I disagree with that title but not the point) says that they did water down their wine.  
> But Anne et al. are there to get drunk George, get it together man.  
> Henry VII did actually spend a lot of his childhood in Brittany so, logically, he very well could have had a Breton accent. Giles D'ewe was allegedly Henry's French tutor but I can't find a repliable source and I'm lazy so I'm running with it.  
> Urien was the husband of Morgana in Arthurian Mythology.  
> Comments are my caffeine so please let me know what you think!


	11. July 1512: To be feared and all that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wouldn’t it have been better for them to not have been useful at all?” Mary asked.

“Why?” He asked. 

“Eet would be eenappropriate for me to accept a gift from you,” Anne replied. They were sitting side by side on a low couch in his library. Anne had been devouring it for nearly an hour, giggling and cackling for every page, before the King spoke. 

She had it in her hands, this beautiful little thing. It was an ornate book, wonderfully crafted and one Anne had never seen before.

 _In Praise of Folly_ or rather _Morias Enkomium._

“No one need know,” The King insisted. 

“Eet ees also ill-mannered to give what one ‘as been gifted.” Anne flipped to the front and showed him the note. 

_To Henry VIII, King of England, long may he reign. May this find your highness as eager a pupil as I remember you to be._

“It’s from Thomas,” _Cet homme_ told her. “Thomas More. Eramus actually wrote it in part for him.”

“And een part as a critique of Rome,” Anne replied. “A witty one at zat.”

“You ought to keep it,” _Cet homme_ pressed. 

“I shall buy myself a copy,” Anne sniffed. “I cannot take zis.”

“If no one knows, then it shall not harm your reputation,” The King responded. 

“I am glad to see you’ve begun to consider eet, _Hal._ ” Anne blinked at him. “I will not risk it for a book, ‘ow ever good.”

“What would you risk it for?” He asked. His soft pink mouth was held slightly open and his hazel eyes were fixed on hers. His hair was starting to curl around his ears, growing like a weed. A blush crawled up her neck but Anne bit her cheek to keep it from reaching her cheeks.

Elle ne réussit pas- _she did not succeed._

“Love?” He asked. “Money? Glory? _Knowledge?_ ”

 _Power,_ Anne thought. _Respect. But of course you were born with both weren’t you?_

“What would you risk it for?” Anne replied. He didn’t look away. “What don’t you have, your ‘ighness?”

“Hal,” He said. “Call me Hal when we’re like this.”

“‘Al,” Anne deferred. “I ‘ave called you zat.”

“Not always,” _Cet homme_ replied. Anne shrugged and tapped her fingers on the cover of the book. 

“What would you risk your reputation for?” Anne asked again. 

“Love,” He told her. 

_Of course,_ Anne thought, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. _As if you don’t have a magnificent beauty for a wife and a bonny blonde in your bed._

“Anyone can ‘ave love,” She scoffed. “Eet is wonderful, but I am a woman; I ‘ave ozzer zings I need more.”

“Like what?” The King crossed his arms over his chest and pouted.

“What ees love eef your ‘usband beats you?” Anne inquired. “What good is love eef eet gets you a bastard in your belly? What good ees love if it makes you marry a stable boy?”

“And if you could have both security and love would you consider it the less important?” The King asked. 

“Zat would be any woman’s dream,” Anne told him. “But I don’t ‘ave ze security of a ‘usband yet zerefore eet ‘as to be ze more important.”

The King rubbed at his jaw, looking at the book in her hands for a moment, clearly thinking. 

“You are not any woman, Anna,” He said, finally. “And I asked _your_ opinion.”

“Is zat not an expression of my opinion?” Anne replied.

“I’m not sure,” The King informed her. Anne looked away, across the room to the window. She was too far away to see the ground below but could make out the cloudy sky.

“Does eet rain often during the summer?” Anne asked. 

“No,” He replied. “Why?”

“I dislike the English rain,” Anne told him. “Just like I dislike simple answers.”

“Is _love_ too simple for you?” The King snapped. 

“No,” Anne replied. “But I zink you are much more zan zat.”

The King was silent for a moment, clearly startled.

“Do you know what I think?” He said softly. “I think you’d have a very different answer if someone else was asking you the question.”

“Why?” Anne replied, eyes wide and fingers tight around the book. 

“You don’t deny it?” He inquired, leaning back with a smirk. It was Anne’s turn to pause. She was silent for so long that the King spoke again.

“Well?” He asked. A joyous expression on his face. _A victorious expression._

“Love,” Anne said. “Is a luxury. One men can afford more so zan women.”

“I disagree,” The King replied earnestly. “It’s as essential as the air we breathe. It’s no sin; it exalts us into God’s arms.”

“Would you….?” Anne began to ask before she thought better. 

To ask if he would die if his wife stopped loving him was treason after all.

“Surely you want more zan zat,” Anne asked. “What did you want when you were young? Glory?”

“Power,” He replied. It was an automatic, confident reply.  
 _An easy truth,_ Anne realised, staring at him, eyes wide, blood turning cold.

 _Would you love him if you heard that, Mary?_ Anne wondered. 

He shrugged. 

“I always wanted to be able to _do something_ ,” He continued. “I was supposed to go to the Church after all. Perhaps I would have been Pope.”

“Would you have been a reformer?” Anne asked. He shook his head back and forth. 

“No,” He said, the left side of his mouth twitched up into a half smile. “I wouldn’t have. Lord knows, I would have had my hands full with the Romans and the Florentines and the Venetians and the French and _every-bloody-one else_ trying to kick down my door.”

“Would you have enjoyed it?” Anne asked. The King grinned properly at her as his eyes darkened. 

“Yes,” He said, “Yes, I would have. God’s Representative On Earth, wouldn’t that be a mighty title?”

“Did you marry your wife for her mighty bloodlines?” Anne replied. She saw the outline of the muscles of his jaw as he glared at her. Anne raised an eyebrow, cocked her head to the side and pursed her lips. “Because I razzer doubt zat.”

“It was a political match,” The King replied. Anne snickered and raised her hand to cover her mouth. The King’s eyes grew cold, cutting beneath her skin in a warning. 

“But you love her,” Anne said, throat tightening as she held his gaze. “Let us not pretend ozzerwise.”

 _Tu ne peux pas me blessé-you cannot hurt me,_ Anne thought. _Tu ne vais pas me blessé-you will not hurt me._

 _Cet homme_ began to fidget and looked down at her hands. 

“Where would you see yourself, Anna?” He asked. “If you could choose?”

“I don’t know,” Anne replied honestly. “France, perhaps, if I could but I ‘ave become razzer fond of England.”

“Fond?” The King inquired, raising both of his eyebrows. 

“More fond zan I am of my books,” Anne replied. “And I love zem very much.”

“But you won’t take this book?” The King said.

“Eet ees not mine to _take_ ,” Anne reminded him. “It was given to you by ze man eet was written for. Your old tutor, none ze less.” 

“Well,” He replied as there was a knock on the door. “You must borrow it at least.”

“Come in,” _Cet homme_ called out. 

Will Compton came in and bowed. He nodded his head to Anne and she nodded back.

“Wolsey, Boleyn and the Ambassador are waiting.” He said.

“The Austrian Ambassador?” Anne guessed.

“No,” _Cet homme_ a repondu- _replied_. “The Frenchman. A bit of a last minute rendez-vous.”

Anne got up as he did, curtsied and made to set the book down. A touch to the back of her hand stopped her.

“Keep it,” The King ordered. Anne opened her mouth to protest. “For now.”

“Alright,” Anne said. 

Anne and Bessie were the first to see the nightgown, having been called to the Queens rooms the morning after her blood returned. Anne wondered if someone had told Catalina D’Aragona that the King had loaned her that book. Regardless it didn’t matter. 

She was already in the bath when they arrived with the bloody gown dumped by the side. 

“Good morning,” Catalina D’Aragona said pleasantly. The two women curtsied and that was when Anne noticed the nightdress. “Comb my hair, please, Mistress Boleyn.” 

_What’s this?_ Anne wondered and nudged the dress with her foot. She glanced over at Blount before she went and grabbed the brush. When Anne returned, Bessie was laying the Queen’s dress out over the chair next to the bath. She looked at Anne with wide eyes and then glanced down at the cloth pooled on the floor. 

When Anne looked she saw the dried blood like a splash of wine on the white cloth. 

_Merde,_ She thought. 

Norfolk called a family meeting that very evening. Anne arrived last but spoke loudest.

“So it’s war then?” She asked. “Austria or France?”

“What are you on about, girl?” Norfolk asked. Anne ignored him, looking down at her father as she pulled the chair next to him out from the table. Mary was seated on her left with her head up, looking over the room with her wide eyes as if she expected to see that something had changed since she had last been in it. Anne looked around herself and found that something had, in fact, changed. 

The two tapestries that had hung on either side of the door were gone, either packed away for the coming trip through the countryside or sold off. Anne squinted at the blank brick. 

_A man who can’t afford to lose,_ Anne remembered. Hal may very well have been right. _Ou peut-être-or perhaps, he knew something she didn’t._

“France,” Her father said. “Unless, Wolsey works one of his spells.”

“We’ll pray for it,” Anne’s mother said. 

_What do you see?_ Anne asked the Hal in her head. _What have I missed?_

“A war will be good,” Norfolk replied. “Let the King get some of his energy out, prove he’s a man; virile; dominant; to be feared and all that.”

“Isn’t zat bad for us?” Anne snorted. Norfolk’s brow knit in confusion but then his mouth cracked open into a half smile.

“War gets a man’s juices flowing, girl.” Norfolk informed her. Anne fought the urge to gag. She glanced over at her father and brother. Despite their lack of resemblance, their rather uncomfortable expressions were nearly identical. 

“We’ll unless you smuggle me into the war camp I don’t see ‘ow that helps us.” Anne replied. “He’ll forget me just like he forgot Mary if I’m not breathing down his neck.”

She looked at Mary out of the corner of her eye. 

“Smuggle myself or Mary into the war camp,” Anne amended on a startling impulse of kindness. 

_What made you desperate enough to bet on two horses?_ Anne wondered, looking at Norfolk and his hideous mustard colored doublet. 

“We may yet avoid war,” Thomas Boleyn said. “The King is not a reckless man by nature. He may very well decide the maintenance of this new French alliance is the better path.”

“Unlikely,” Norfolk laughed. 

“Why not bet on both?” Anne shrugged. They likely needed to, though, exactly why, Anne was not sure. “War is expensive but peace is stagnant. The latter could be good for us, the former could be _very_ good.”

“Do you mean to say you’re with child?” Elizabeth Boleyn asked. Anne raised an eyebrow at her mother half disgusted and half impressed at the leap of logic. Anne had, in truth, said absolutely nothing.

“He ‘as not had me yet,” Anne replied simply. 

“Yet you were in his library for nearly two hours this morning,” Norfolk said. Anne raised the l’annulaire de sa main droit à sa bouch-t _he ring finger of her right hand to her mouth_ , itching to chomp on the scab along the side of the nail, before she thought the better of it. Instead she put her hands on the table, one over the other. 

“We discussed Catholicism, religious reform and the papacy,” Anne sniffed, raising her chin.

“I hope that wasn’t all your mouth was doing, girl.” Norfolk replied. He leaned back in his chair and twisted his mouth into the ugliest expression she had ever seen and her uncle was by no means an ugly man.

_Old, yes, but not ugly. Though, he was a thoroughly disgusting man._

_Un homme désespéré-a desperate man._

“No it wasn’t,” Anne lied. Her mother let out a soft, sad, sound. When Anne looked she saw her mother’s eyes were fixed on her, wide, wet and horrible. 

_What did you expect?_ Anne thought. _You’d have had Mary on her knees between his legs months ago._

“Good,” Norfolk replied. “Make sure when he takes you it’s in a bed.”

“Why?” Anne asked. “Is a child conceived while bent over a table not still a child?”

“Anne!” Her mother gasped. Anne flashed her a quick glare and then stopped to stare. Her father had his hand slapped over his mouth and his eyes shut in either amusement or horror.

“Has he been…?” Mary asked. 

_Fuck you,_ Anne bit her tongue to keep from speaking. _When did you grow a spine?_

“Been what?” Anne replied. 

“Jesus _Christ,_ Anne.” George groaned. 

“Oh. No, not at all.” Anne said, doing a terrible job at feigning surprise. “Has he been bending _you_ over Mary?”

“Anne!” Her mother barked. Norfolk tossed his head back and let out a harsh laugh. “How dare you….” 

“We’re a family business,” Anne cut Elizabeth Boelyn off, nearly shouting to be heard. “Aren’t we?”

“All families are a business,” Thomas Boleyn replied so softly that Anne thought she might have been the only one that heard him. 

“And we are your goods for sale,” Anne smiled sardonically. Anne’s father kicked her shin under the table. “Or loan.”

“The trick is to get him to buy, girl.” Norfolk grunted. “Now that the Queen’s not pregnant, his purse springs have loosened another inch.”

 _Have you gone broke?_ Anne wondered suddenly. 

“Why?” Mary asked suddenly. “They are still young, their luck may yet turn.”

 _Would you bet against us just to watch me fall?_ Anne wondered. She had already done the same when she wrote that letter. 

Anne decided she didn’t want to think about it. 

“The King can’t afford to wait on _luck_ , Mary,” Elizabeth Boleyn snapped. “He was badly wounded not six months ago and he hasn’t sired a living, legitimate child.”

“And let’s not forget his reign started out with a Yorkist trying to bury a knife in his heart,” George added. 

_Néanmoins pendant la messe-at the mass before his wedding, nonetheless._ Anne thought. If that wasn’t an ill omen she didn’t know what was. 

“Were you there?” Anne asked. “When it happened?”

There was a moment of silence as every eye in the room was fixed on her face. Anne ran her eyes over her family's faces. Her father looked pensive; her mother’s eyes were still wet with unshed, awful tears; her brother looked uncomfortable and Norfolk was glaring at her. 

“Yes,” Mary said when Anne turned her gaze onto her sister. “The King was so brave. I remember that, afterwards, his sleeve was completely soaked with blood but he saw to his grandmother and sister before he went to his doctor. And he demanded that his guards treat de la Pole with the dignity deserved by those of his station.”

“So they beat him bloody on the spot?” Anne cut her off. 

“That’s not what he meant!” Mary replied in horror. 

_That is exactly what he meant_ , Anne thought. 

“He ever stopped to comfort me when he saw I was crying,” Mary continued. “And then his father's councillors betrayed him….”

“That’s enough, Mary,” Elizabeth Boleyn said gently. 

“Didn’t he ‘ave- who was it? A Dudley and….?” Anne asked. 

“Dudley and Empson,” George confirmed. 

“Yes, he had them arrested the same day,” Thomas Boleyn told his daughter. 

“What was the charge again?” Anne asked.

“Constructive treason,” Thomas replied.

“In France, they said it was because zey ‘elped de la Pole.” Anne commented. 

“Hmph,” Norfolk said. “They helped the old King relieve half the nobility of their monies; saved this country from ruin.”

 _Including you I assume,_ Anne thought and looked down at her hands. _Did you watch them die? Did you smile when their heads were lopped off?_

Anne wasn’t sure if she was talking to Norfolk or Hal. 

_The King._

“An impressive feat,” George drawled. “Given how we do so love to spend it.”

“And he killed them anyways,” Anne said. 

“They were as useful dead to the King as they’d been alive to his father,” Norfolk told her. “Obviously, Uncle.” Anne snorted. 

“Wouldn’t it have been better for them to not have been useful at all?” Mary asked.

Anne was riding at the back of the hunt with Madge Shelton, her belly rolling with nausea and her hips aching from cramps. Anne hadn’t wanted to crawl out of bed when she awoke but Mary was snoring and the Queen had announced she’d be joining in the hawking for the first time this summer. The lines on Catalina D’Aragona’s face had seemed to deepened after her monthly came but it had regained some of its former light when she took her place at the head of the hunt. 

Anne had never imagined that the tiny, pale faced, seemingly delicate woman was a mighty huntress but watching her beside Hal- _the fucking King-_ astride her mighty stallion, she thought Catalina D’Aragona could have been mistaken for Diana. 

_The King would make an excellent Apollo,_ Anne thought. _Avec ses chevaux-with his hair._

Anne was surprised no one had named him that yet. 

“Do you not like hawking?” Madge asked her, having been nattering on about something or other while Anne thought. 

“The Queen ‘ad her blood five days ago.” Anne replied bluntly.

“Come now, Anne,” Madge laughed. “I never took you for a sore loser.”

“I’ve never even played the game,” Anne said. 

“Yes, you have,” Madge replied rather sharply. “You may not have wanted to but you’ve played it.”

“Do you want to play cards tonight?” Anne asked after a moment’s silence. “My brother is hosting a little soirée.”

 _I wonder if he’ll like her_ , Anne thought. _Not the point nor my intent._

It wouldn’t matter if the King did take a fancy to Madge. Anne wanted to see if her sister would squirm when Madge got drunk and, inevitably, flirted with Hal- _le putain de roi-the motherfucking king._

“That could be fun.” Madge replied, smiling her pretty Howard smile at Anne. “Who’s going?”

“Myself, Mary, Charles Brandon, and probably Will Compton; perhaps Jane if she is not too tired and likely the King, if he isn’t otherwise engaged.” Anne told her. 

“Yes, Anne,” Madge responded, far too sarcastically for Anne’s tastes. “I’d be happy to act as an escort for your nightly rendez-vous with your lover.”

“My, my, Madge,” Anne replied. “It seems I’ll make a Frenchwoman out of you yet.”

“As long as I don’t have to watch you getting bent over the cards table.” Madge tittered.

The King did not join them for cards that evening or any other evening for the next week.

“Are you bedding him?” Mary asked one morning. Anne had come in late the night before, from her nightly wanderings in the abandoned, silent hallways. 

_I wasn’t that stupid when I was ten,_ Anne thought.

“Non, je ne suis pas.” Anne replied flatly. “I’d ‘ave warned you if I was.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” Mary mumbled. 

Anne ignored her, knowing very well Mary would be stewing in self pity for the rest of the night over something or other that Hal- _the King_ -had done.

“There’s a zousand rumors about who ze King ‘as in ‘is bed.” Anne continued as if she hadn’t heard Mary. “Don’t listen to most of zem.”

“Of course I don’t,” Mary replied, sounding offended. “Do you think I’m daft enough to believe that the King took a woman in the bushes?”

“‘E did _what_?” Anne asked. She had not heard that rumor before but then again she wasn’t often in the company of individuals who were foolish enough to accredit such filth.

“Took a woman in a bunch of bushes,” Mary repeated. “She chased him so intently during the hunt that he was forced to have her for a moment's reprieve.”

“Was it the Queen?” Anne asked, shaking her head back and forth. 

_That would be unpleasant,_ Anne thought. _Lying on your back, sweaty from the hunt, skirts pushed up around your hips, a root or two digging into your back as the King rutted and grunted between your thighs, his friends standing so close you can hear them talking and even see the horses they’re holding over the bushes._

“And I didn’t mean the King,” Mary replied. “I meant Lord Percy.” 

_That wouldn’t make sense,_ Anne thought. _Cet homme would fuck me on my hands and knees. No, not that either_. 

“No,” Anne replied. “I am not fucking Harry Percy.”

It was not a lie, afterall. He’d never been inside of her.

Anne imagined her hands braced on the dirt and shuddered in disgust. That would be awful. _Perhaps Hal would hold me up with one arm around my waist and his free hand in my untied riding jacket._ Anne thought and flushed at the image. She’d be straddling him with her back against his chest, her skirts hauled up, baring the sides of her thighs to the summer air but draped in a way that covered her knees. Her arse pressed to his groin and his grunts filling her ears as he rocked up into her. Her back would be pressed to his front so that she could feel his muscles and how his belly heaved as he panted into her ear. 

Anne couldn’t imagine him being a generous lover. She’d have to drag one of his hands down to her clitorous and order him to rub it.

“But you’re visiting him at night.” Mary replied, sitting down next to Anne on the bed, distracting her from her musings. Anne took the opportunity to reach out and pinch her sister’s cheek, rage rising in her gut.

“Don’t you ‘ave a ‘usband you should be visiting?” Anne sneered. “Or am I in the presence of ze Virgin herself?” 

“I am not pregnant,” Mary replied, flinching and trying to jerk out of Anne’s grip. Anne squeezed the skin between her fingers before she let her go. “Though they say _you_ are.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, where to start. 
> 
> "de la Pole and "York" both refer to Edmund de la Pole, 3rd Duke of Suffolk/Earl of Suffolk (no relation to Charles Brandon). Historically, Edmund de la Pole was the nephew of Richard III and Edward IV through his mother, Elizabeth of York (their sister not Henry's Mom). His elder brother, John, was actually named Richard's heir but he died in 1487 according the Wikipedia. This meant that Edmund had as good a claim if not better (better, it was better) than Henry VII and, subsequently, everyone's favorite arse. He had a messy relationship with Henry VII; fighting for him during the Cornish Rebellion of 1497 but then getting prosecuted for murder and running away to France. He got pardoned, came back for Arthur and Catherine's wedding but then, in August 1501 (four months after Arthur died) he left England and déclared himself the rightful King. He was handed over to Henry VII in 1505/6. He wasn't exécuted until 1513, when his younger brother signed up to fight with the French, who the English were at war with. Someone ought to write a book about that guy.  
> NOW, in The Spanish Princess, de la Pole spends most of his minimal amount of screen time sneaking around London, trying to recruit his cousin, Margaret Pole, to his cause and generally being outsmarted left right and center until he's unceremoniously captured ten minutes before the end of the last épisode. Here's the thing, A CLAIMANT TO THE THRONE IS NOT GOING TO SNEAK INTO THE COUNTRY UNLESS THEY HAVE SOME KIND OF A PLAN BECAUSE IF THEY'RE CAUGHT THEY'RE GOING TO THE BLOCK. *Ahem*  
> Also that was a waste of a plotline (and I tend to ascribe to the Chekov's Gun principle) so, in this AU, de la Pole got it together and made an attempt on Henry's life because (A) that would have been a much better finale than what we got (I'm not complaining about the Henry/Juana plotline because hypocrite Henry is the best Henry but still); (B) if you're going to ignore history in the name of entertainment as much as they did then you'e got to go all the way and (C) it rachets up Henry's desperation for an heir. 
> 
> Edmund Dudley and Richard Empson were counselors of Henry VII who were widely despised by the public because of Henry's Council Learned in Law (think the Romans Emperor Tiberious' treason trials but with fines instead of exécutions) and the harsh tax policies they helped create/enforce. David Starkey described Dudley as Henry VII's ‘extortioner in chief’ and was a rôle model for Thomas Cromwell while giving a lecture (Source: www.graysinn.org). When Henry VIII became King he moved to distance himself from his father's practices and they got arrested for "constructive treason" and judicially murdered.  
> In the Spanish Princess, it was just Dudley who was an anti-semetic stéréotype and was judicially murdered by Margaret Beaufort. I decided to stick with the historical death because Phillippa Gregory, Emma Frost et al. need to stop blaming the poor woman for all the evil the men around her did and it makes a point about Henry's character.  
> Anne has a very good reason to fear this man even though he literally is only hurting himself if he exécutes her and that is the trump card of trump cards to have.  
> As always, all mistakes are mine! Comments are my caffeine supplément so please let me know what you think!


	12. July 1512: As unlikely as a duck turning into a deer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Little creeper?” Mary asked later when she clambered into bed. 
> 
> “Go to fucking sleep, Mary.” Anne replied as she buried her face in her pillow, throat burning. Her idiot soulmate was throwing up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SODOMY-in the past it meant any sort of sex that wasn't heterosexual p in v penetration. Sodomy was and could be used for a divorce alongside "denial of marital rights" (*gag*). 
> 
> IMPORTANT: I've edited the second chapter to give a better/less rushed introduction to a plot point and while it's not quite necessary for you to have a full understanding of now but it'll give a conversation slightly more impact.
> 
> Edit: I cleaned up a few chunks of this chapter bc I should not write and edit at midnight while drunk.

It was a sunny morning in Woodstock when Percy dropped down into the seat next to her, his face unshaven and his eyes bright. He took his cap off and tossed it on the table in front of him. His doublet was new and white with gold vine detailing. Anne looked him up and down. The cut was identical to several of the ones the King had taken to wearing. Anne couldn’t help swallowing uncomfortably. She considered it a handsome cut on Hal and it was _certainly_ a handsome cut on Harry yet she would prefer he didn’t wear it.

 _I’d prefer you look nothing like the King,_ Anne thought.

“Good morning,” Anne said in greeting. Percy reached over, lifted up her hand and kissed her knuckles gently. Anne tensed, half expecting him to comment on her freshly scabbed over hangnails. He did not. 

“A lovely one to be outdoors is it not?” Harry replied. “Fancy a picnic later?”

“From what I’ve heard I’ll be stuck inside pour tout de l’hiver- _for all of winter,_ ” Anne replied. 

“There’s still much to do,” Harry assured her. “Last year the King had dances and ice skating out on a frozen lake. Oh, where was it? Greenwich? Not Hampton….”

“There’s little chance of _zat_ this year.” Anne replied bluntly. “He’ll be too busy at the shipyards or marshalling troops.”

“No,” Harry said. “We’ll marshall troops in the spring, about a month or two before we leave.”

“And the ships are already done then?” Anne choked out the _then,_ fighting to keep her tongue from making a French sound. She did it with Hal for the simple reason it gave him a sense of intimacy with her. A faux intimacy.

_No it wasn’t._

_Fuck,_ Anne thought as she looked at Harry. This man knew her better-a _thousand times better_ -yet, somehow, she found herself leaning slightly back away from him rather than forward. 

It was the fact that _cet homme_ was her amê soeur- _soulmate._ Alma gemela. 

“He’s been building then since he was crowned,” Percy yawned. He tugged the porridge toward him and spooned some onto his plate. 

Anne felt the urge to turn her head toward the door. Instead she smiled gently at her lover. 

Then there was a colossal shift in the crowded hall as every man and woman stood up. Anne hopped up herself and looked at the King as he guided his Queen into the hall. 

It was abnormal to see them break their fast in state. Anne supposed he wanted to show off his new, close fitted red doublet. She’d do the same thing.

His collar looked awful. There was no collar. It just stopped at the base of his throat. 

Hal didn’t look at her as he approached but just as he passed his chin turned toward. Anne wondered what he would do if she raised one hand from beneath her long, yellow, French sleeve and waved to him. His eyes lingered on her for a moment too long, making the hair on the back of Anne's neck stand up in a half panic. 

That was when she noticed Catalina D’Aragona. In Anne’s defense the Queen was on the opposite side of _cet homme_ so Anne couldn’t get a proper look at her. _She_ didn’t turn to look at her. 

The Queen wore her hair up, something that Anne had never seen before. Oh, she wore it tied back on for the hunt in a snood or a series of simple braids but she’d never worn something so elaborate. 

_Non,_ Anne thought. _Ce n’est pas vrai-that’s not right._

She wore Juliet caps and long braids or a low bun, often with pearls weaved in or gold ribbons holding everything together. Those could be considered à la mode- _fashionable_ . Not la mode en la France _-fashionable in France_ -but an English fashion. 

She’d never seen the Queen braid her hair in a crown around a net before. 

_How very French,_ Anne thought. _Eh, it’ll do her some good._

Anne had seen the Queen sleep with her hair tied in knots with rags to get those curls and she knew very well how long those took to tie up. 

It took Anne vingt à quarante- _twenty to forty minutes-_ to tie her hair up in the morning but, then again, Anne had done her hair à la mode italienne ou la mode française- _in the italian or french style-_ since she was twelve. 

She also had incredibly thick hair. 

So did the Queen but Anne didn’t wash her hair everyday, meaning it was less likely to come loose than the Queen’s lavender smelling strands. 

Catalina D’Aragona’s hair was parted somewhat in the center and her braids were too tight- too close to her scalp but they circled a red hair net with pearls so Anne approved. It wasn’t quite French nor Italian but an English variation. 

_How very patriotic,_ Anne thought, fighting to keep a sneer off her face. 

Anne decided she was going to have to get her hands on a Juliet cap the second the court returned to London even if a war didn’t break out. It would be amusing to fill some of her disgusting amount of free time playing with it.

“I’m hoping to get a command,” Harry told her as they sat down. 

“Won’t you ‘ave to stay home?” Anne replied. “Your father’s lands are on the Scottish border afterall.”

Harry looked away uncomfortably. Anne looked up the hall at the King and Queen.

 _A daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand,_ Anne thought sarcastically. _Écossais et les femmes françaises-Scotsmen and French women-beware._

“That’s his duty,” Harry replied. Anne looked back at him and cocked her head to the side. “I intend to earn my spurs in France.”

“I’ll allow it,” Anne primly informed him. “But only if you return to me.”

“I shall only make that promise, my lady,” Harry said. “If you come picnicking with me.”

 _What would you do Catalina?_ She thought. _If you found your husband was in the same position as your father?_

Thank _God_ Anne wasn’t Ferdinand of Aragon.

_“Pourquoi avons-nous été invités par le Pape en Italie dans dès le début-why did the Pope invite us into Italy in the first place?” An eleven year old Anne had sniffed, unpicking a thread from the center of her cap frame while scowling. An older girl, Étienette, sitting next to her had had a needle between her teeth, also picking hers out. She was a little redhead whose last name Anne had forgotten when she left for her father’s court._

_Anne de la Bretagne had turned her head to Anne while_ _Michelle de Soubise_ _had simply gone back to sewing._

_“Il ne nous invitons pas-He didn’t invite us,” The Baroness de Soubise said. Then she looked at Anne de la Bretagne. “Qu'est que vous avez appris de vos filles?-What have you been teaching your girls?”_

_“Elles n’ont pas besoin d’apprendre sur la guerre-they do not need to learn about the war,” Anne de la Bretagne replied. Anne glared at her mistress, openly. They both had already seen a touch of war._

_“Et si notre epouses teuraint dans une bataille-and if our husbands are killed in a battle?” Anne replied. “Si les espagnols ou l’anglais nous envahiraient-if the Spanish or English invade?”_ _  
_ _Michelle de Soubise tilted her chin up and cocked her head to the side, looking down her upturned, aquiline nose at Anne._

_“Dit-moi-tell me, Mistress Boleyn,” The Baroness said. “Do you truly think your half-island has the forces to conquer France after all she has suffered?”_

_“Non,” She said._

_"Comment peuvent-ils combattre son Altesse dans l’Italie-how can they fight his highness in Italy? Les Espagnols-the spanish? ” The redhead Étienette sitting next to her asked. “La Reine de Castille se combattait son frère-the Queen of Castille fought her own brother.”_

_“L’Espagne a un population plus grande que L’Angleterre-Spain has a bigger population than England.” Anne de la Bretagne spoke up for the first time, voice hard. “Et quoi d’autre-and what else?”_

_“Isabella et s’amê soeur-Isabella and her soulmate,” Étienette said._

_“Le mariage de Castille et Aragon-the marriage of Castille and Aragon,” Anne replied flatly. She pulled yet another stitch out. “Ils aient apporté le pays ensemble sur une Catholic banner, béni par Dieu dans un mannier que l’Europe n'avait vu pas depuis Henri II et Rosamund ou la malheureuse Inês de Castro-they brought the country together under one Catholic banner, blessed by God in a manner that Europe hasn’t seen since Henry II and Rosamund or the unhappy Inês de Castro.”_

_“Et quoi d’autre-and what else?” La Reine asked. “Penser-think.”_

_“And the gold their men are bringing back from the New World.” Mary piped up._

_“Leur réputation comme les soldats-their reputations as soldiers,” Anne added. “Et l’émerveillement qu'un mariage des âmes sœurs apportent-and the awe that a marriage of soulmates brings. C’est pourquoi le Pape qu’ils nommèrent Les Monarques Le plus Catholiques, non-it’s why the Pope named them The Most Catholic Monarchs, no?"_

_“Bon-good,” Anne de la Bretagne said but she did not smile. Her sewing was on her lap, discarded._

_“Angleterre est plutôt fauché-England is rather broke,” Étienette added. Anne frowned, feeling, suddenly like she was missing something._

_“Le Roi de l’Espagne-the King of Spain-shared his wife’s pain in the childbed,” Anne said slowly._

_“Comme tout amês soeurs-as all soulmates-do,” The Baroness grunted._

_“Montait-Ferdinand dans la bataille avec ses soldats quand il combattait les Moors-did Ferdinand ride into battle with his men when he fought the Moors?” Anne inquired, curiously. The Baroness looked at sa reine with a startled expression._

_“Je ne saurais pas-I wouldn’t know,” Anne de la Bretagne replied. “Bien que je suspecte non-though I suspect not.”_

_“Mais il fait maintenant- but now he does,” Anne continued._

_“Bien sûr-of course,” Étienette replied sadly. “Il n’avait no longer has a soulmate to protect.”_

_“And how did that change him?” Anne de la Bretagne inquired. Anne thought for a moment and scratched her already long nose. Next to her Étienette shrugged and finished picking her thread out. Anne gritted her jaw._

_“Je ne sais pas-I don’t know,” Anne spat._

_“Les chevaliers-knights-value the fame that comes from_ war _,” The Queen replied sternly._

_“He resented her for it,” Étienette inferred, going exactly where her mistress did not want. “I’d bet money he hated her at times. It’s why they quarreled before she died.”_

_Anne ground her teeth and tugged at her thread. Her long nails caught on eachother as she did so and Anne dropped the thread. She shook her wrist out_

_“Ça ta bien-are you alright?” She inquired sharply._

_“Oui-yes,” Anne replied and bobbed her head up and down. Then her eyes snapped up and landed on la grosse, jolie visage de Anne de la Bretagne-the fat, pretty face of Anne of Brittany._

_Ferdinand of Aragon wanted to die._

“Of course,” Anne said to Harry, accepting his offer of a picnic. She ate a bit of porridge but found it tasted like grease. “It would be a pleasure.” 

“Do you want me to bring duck?” Harry asked. “I remember you loved it when we were children.”

“Is that what made you think of a picnic?” Anne replied and sipped her drink. “How we went out when I visited Calais and you ran around in the mud all day?”

“I was hoping you’d join me this time,” Percy smiled happily at her and for one brief second Anne thought she’d actually consider doing it. Instead she smiled her little sardonic smile.

“Zat is as unlikely as a duck turning into a deer before our eyes.” She told him. 

Anne returned _Morias Enkomion_ to the king after a hunt. They were both in their riding clothes, with a layer of dried sweat covering their bodies. Anne still had her gloves tucked in her belt. She’d forgotten to put them away when she’d fetched _cet homme’s_ book. He was waiting, as he’d sent he would be, by the far tree in the garden. 

That is to say, he was leaning against it, arms crossed and chin tilted up.

 _Cocky twat,_ Anne thought, feeling her mood start to curdle like milk. She curtsied sharply, walked right up to him and offered up the book. 

“Your highness,” Anne said. 

“Good afternoon to you too, Annamarie.” He replied. Anne favored him with a glare. 

“Kindly, do not call me _zat_ ,” Anne told him. 

“Why?” _Cet bête_ asked. 

“I do not like eet.” She told him as he took the book from her and riffled through the pages. 

“Again,” He said. “Why?”

“Would you like to share your own sister’s name?” Anne replied. 

“That would be ridiculous wouldn’t it?” He guffawed. “Mary le premier, le Roi d’Angleterre- _Mary the first, King of England._ ”

“Or Margaret,” Anne shrugged. He offered his book back to her and Anne looked down at it pointedly before looking up at him, far more coquettishly than she’d intended. 

“Even worse,” Henry told her. He then flicked his wrist, gesturing her to take a book.

“I ‘ave finished it, ‘Al,” Anne said. 

“It was a gift,” He told her. 

“Yes.” She replied. “To you. I took it on a loan.”

“And I wish to give it to you as a gift,” _Cet homme_ told her. 

“I’ve already refused it,” Anne reminded him. “What? Three times now?”

 _Cet homme_ smiled and shook his head back and forth in disbelief. 

“Have you gotten yourself a copy of your own?” He inquired. 

“No,” Anne replied cautiously. 

“Then why don’t you keep it?” He inquired. “I’ve got a second copy, probably a third or fourth lying about in one of my libraries.”

“‘Ow charitable of you.” Anne sneered at him. “You would be better ‘anding it off to a beggar.”

“Is there anything I do that doesn’t offend you?” He asked, sneering down at her. His eyes were not cold, simply frustrated. Anne could certainly work with that.

“I actually enjoy most of what you do for me,” Anne told him. Then she paused and nodded her head to the side. “With me. Just not your insistence on this.”

It didn’t seem to relax him much. 

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re the only person in this court who’s even half honest with me,” He told her. Anne’s eyebrows shot up her forehead, she pursed her lips, reached out and gently tugged _In Praise of Folly_ from his hand. 

“What ‘appened?” Anne inquired. 

“Warham’s about to fall off his rocker over France,” Henry told her, shaking his head. “I all but had to rip his account books out of his hands to get them to Wolsey.”

“The Lord Chancellor?” Anne inquired. “I zought he and Wolsey were as thick as thieves.”

“Did Norfolk tell you that?” Harry scoffed. 

“Yes,” Anne lied. It had actually been Harry Percy but, well, mentioning him would do her no good. 

And this might do Norfolk a bit of evil.

“Of course he did,” Hal continued. “God, half my councils against me and the rest have their noses so deep in my father’s paranoid….”

“Arse?” Anne asked. 

“I was going to say isolationist policy.” He told her. 

_Of course you were,_ Anne thought. 

“Very good, your ‘ighness,” Anne replied. “ _Hal_.”

“I’m glad you remembered.” Hal said. 

“I’m glad you got ze books out of Warham’s paws,” Anne told him. 

“Eh,” Henry shook his head. “The old man’s known me since I was an unruly boy. I don’t think he’s stopped seeing me as the drunken brat that stumbled into the Privy Council and fought with me father.”

 _Brawled, more like,_ Anne thought back to what Norfolk had told her. _I would have been what? Ten? Eleven?_

“‘Ow old were you?” Anne asked him.

“Seventeen,” Hal told her. 

_Eleven then._ Anne thought and tried to remember when her phantom hangovers had begun.

“A thoroughly foolish age,” Anne replied neutrally.

“What did you do?” He inquired. “Tangle with page boys in privy closets?”

“I attended my lady la reine in her bed chamber,” Anne told him. “And in her bath; at her diplomatic meetings; when she went hunting; when she dined in state or in private; when she said mass; dressed; did her hair….”

“Well then,” Hal said tartly.

“Need I continue, your ‘ighness?” Anne replied. 

“No,” He snorted. “Certainly not. It sounds awful. Did you ever get a moment to yourself?”

“Do you?” Anne asked, cocking her head to the side and blinking up at him. He didn’t react as Harry did, flushing with pride under her attentions, but the broadening of his slight smile was enough to let her know he appreciated it. 

_He likes having my favor,_ Anne mused. _Any woman’s favor._

The thought knocked her out of her half haze. 

_Fucking man_ , Anne thought. _Soulmate._

 _He’s your soulmate, girl._ That was what Norfolk would say if he knew. _What the hell are you doing? Get him between your legs and you’ll get us a crown._

He’d probably scream it in her face, spittle fling everywhere and getting in her eye. 

“Yes, actually,” Hal replied. “Oddly enough, I suppose. Does that surprise you, Anna?”

“Why?” Anne inquired. She wanted to ask how often and when but she thought better of it. Hal shrugged. 

“I’m not sure.” He told her. “I used to think all of my pages and servants were My Lady Grandmother’s spies so I’d always chase them out when I could.”

“You must’ve been a pleasure to work for,” Anne commented wryly. 

“I am always a pleasure, little creeper,” _Cet homme_ told her. “Afterall, didn’t you just tell me so?”

Anne dipped her head, conceding the point. She turned the book in her hands and looked at the simple, leather, stamped Morais Enkomium, 

“I’m not keeping your book,” Anne said.

“Because you assume I think you a beggar?” _Cet homme_ inquired, voice growing tense. Anne nearly glared at him. “Or because you want nothing from me?”

“I want your company,” Anne informed him. 

_As mercurial as it tends to be,_ She thought grumply.

“I’m going off to war,” Hal reminded her. “I’d think you’d want me home safe.”

“I’d prefer you stay,” Anne told him. It was part true and part lie, though she couldn’t be certain which was greater. The latter. 

“Because it’s with France,” _Cet homme_ stated.

“Because I’m an Englishwoman,” She snapped. “And you know as well as I do zat we’ve lost too much to war in the last fifty years.”

“And here I thought you’re, what, seventeen?” He inquired. 

“ _Nineteen_ ,” Anne told him. “My brother is eighteen and my sister seventeen.”

 _Do you like the idea of some half grown woman in your bed?_ Anne wondered. _A contrast to your wise, older wife?_

Anne was pretty sure that Blount was fresh at court, arriving around the same time she had from some country Countess’ household or other. She really ought to know that. 

“That explains quite a bit,” Hal commented. “It’s no wonder you care so greatly for your sister.”

 _My brother should have been set between me and them,_ Anne thought. _He should have been here, helping me with this game. If Norfolk hadn’t gotten his claws into him._

Somehow, somehow, Anne knew it would have been different. Henry, her little brother, would have stayed by her side; her twin; her companion in birth and in life. 

“I would care for her anyways,” Anne told him. “She is my sister and deserves better than her lot in life.”

It was an easy yet tricky lie. Mary had glutted herself on the fairy tales this court fed its women and all but refused to purge herself of their poison. _This,_ all of it, was little better than a game from which a woman could extract a man’s true affections but it took a clearer vision than her sister had ever possessed. 

“Than me?” Hal asked. There was no bite in his voice, just a low wry kind of humor. Anne wondered if this was when he was at his most dangerous; drawing his prey in before sinking his teeth.

“No,” Anne replied. “Than the loyalties she was born with.”

“She was born with a loyalty to her _King_ ,” The King reminded her. “And she would have betrayed that to get a belly full of bastard.”

“Mary ‘ad little choice,” Anne replied carefully, remembering the lie she had told in her letter.

“As did you,” He said. “You share the same blood as your sister yet here you are, standing beside me rather than against me.”

“Ambition does not necessarily set one against one’s King,” Anne reminded him gently. Henry’s eyes went cold and he stepped toward her, lifting his hand to cup his hand to her cup her chin gently. 

“Not when you brawl amongst your equals,” _Cet homme_ told her. “But to steal a throne is an entirely different matter.”

 _Careful, careful,_ Anne thought. 

“You seem to know the difference very well, your highness,” Anne replied grumpily. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” He groaned. “You're pricklier than a rose bush.”

“You are a rosebush,” Anne scoffed.

“What?” Hal chuckled.

“Red haired, beautiful and with foul claws,” Anne said. “Only desperate, _creeping_ creatures are careless enough to shove their hand in one’s underbelly.”

“And you think yourself not among them?” The King asked. 

“I don’t like getting cut,” Anne replied. Hal shook his head and reached for her yet again. Anne let him do it, ever cautious of him. 

Especially now.

He put a hand around her waist, settling it on the center of her back. He cupped her cheek again and pressed a kiss to her head.

 _Fuck_ , Anne thought. Her skin prickled and she swallowed, heartbeat ticking up a notch.

“I’ve drawn my sharpest thorns and here you are,” _Cet homme_ said. “Unbloodied.”

 _Oh, no,_ Anne thought. _No you haven’t._

She lifted _In Praise of Folly_ and set it against his chest hard enough that it made a slight thump. Anne could barely feel it, likely due to the padding of his doublet and shirt between the book and his skin. 

“Your book,” Anne replied. 

“Your book,” Henry insisted bluntly. Anne fought the urge to smack her head against his collarbone. It would probably be hard enough to clear her head.

“Why?” Anne inquired. “What could I possibly have worth your loyal friend’s gift?”

 _Other than my broken hymen staining your bedsheets,_ She thought. _I wonder if you’d scream from the pain?_

Henry shook his head and stepped back from her. The book fell into the grass between the two of them. When Anne glanced down she saw that it’s pages had splayed open. The King knelt and picked it up. Anne looked down at him, raised an eyebrow and cocked her head to the side. 

“Shouldn’t you be lower than me, Anna?” He asked as he got up, holding the book. 

“I apologize your ‘ighness,” Anne replied. “You were so _quick_ zat I ‘ave not ze speed to lie on my back in time.”

“It’s no trouble,” Hal told her. Anne smirked slightly. It wasn’t every day you got to insult a king while he was on his knees in front of her. 

“Perhaps you could loan me one I’ve never read,” _Cet homme_ suggested. 

“I’m sorry?” Anne replied. 

“I’ll take _Morias Enkomion_ back if you can find me a book I’ve never read.” He repeated. Anne twisted her mouth into what she knew to be an unpleasant expression and blinked at the ground. 

“I fear it won’t be a difficult task,” Hal told her. “I don’t actually read that often.”

“You play the intellectual well,” Anne raised a haughty eyebrow as she spoke.

“Normally people read to me,” He said. 

“How generous of them.” Anne commented and reached her hand and took the book from him. He took the opportunity to put his hands on her thin waist.

“Let me kiss you,” _Cet homme_ said. “Please, Anna.”

_This nonsense is how you made my sister fall in love with you ,_ Anne thinks. _These twists of your mood pull women in and then shove them out and then woo them right back in. It’s like abusing alcohol or opium. It’s why the Queen looked at you like you're the sun even while you stick your cock in the gutter._

_And in her ladies in waiting._

“No,” Anne whispered. It was a true kind of intimacy and a painful one. She ought to kiss him, to nip his lip, tug him to the ground so he was on top of her, scratch her nails on his neck and suck on that soft spot where his chin met his neck. 

He kissed her forehead instead, lips lingering on her skin. 

“I shall make do with the sight of you then,” The King said. “As torturous as it may be.”

 _If Warham died or quit, Wolsey fled and you got stuck sitting on your arse running your country you wouldn't even have the energy to dream of me,_ Anne wanted to reply but, for once in her damn life she held her tongue. Norfolk would be proud of her. 

It was after a several hour long hunt and a change of clothes that Anne found herself wandering through the hallways, her old copy of _The Odyssey_ in hand _._ Woodstock had the fewest nooks and crannies of any of the palaces she’d seen in England. Even the smallest of the royal hunting lodges in France had somewhere suitable to hide when the fancy took her.

 _Or perhaps I didn’t need to disappear as often,_ Anne thought. 

What she needed to do was get _In Praise of Folly_ back to him regardless of what she had to find. It was stashed in her trunk, set atop her other two dozen books like a white flag waving on a battlement. In hindsight, she shouldn’t have taken it in the first place

The book was a bribe of some kind or an advance payment, like coins slapped on the table in front of a whore, whether the King truly intended it to be or not. It was like Blount’s dresses and new pearls. 

There was little point in dwelling on it, though, she could simply return it to him at cards. 

Anne nearly sighed when she found the appropriate spot to sit on a ledge by a window. She sat down, yawned, shuttered and settled in, finding the hard, warm brick exceptionally comfortable. Anne cracked her book open and began to read, only to be interrupted by a page boy, a passing maid or a harried nobleman. 

She was just beginning to read Calypso’s impassioned plea to remain the captor of Odysseus when the door of the room directly across from her opened. 

William Carey walked out, freshly shaven, dressed in a green velvet doublet and sporting a gold brooch on his throat. It was a golden circle with pearls in the center and hanging from beneath it. Better crafted than the embroidery on his clothes at least.

His face twisted into a frown as he saw her and he squinted, like the King was wont to do. 

_Beaufort cheekbones,_ Anne thought. The King had them too. _Lucky fools._

“Brother!” Anne called as she got to her feet. 

“Mistress Boleyn,” He smiled a practiced smile in return. “What a pleasant coincidence.”

“It is not so,” Anne laughed. “No one told me you have such well placed rooms.”

“A benefit of his highness’ favor,” Carey told her. 

“What it must be to have it,” Anne replied. Carey looked at her with open suspicion. 

“We missed you at the hunt today.” Anne continued. 

“I’m sure you were able to give his highness good cheer,” Carey said. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him, such a quintessentially English gesture that Anne had to grin.

“Oh,” She said. “I cannot presume to speak for the King. I doubt there are any who truly can.”

“Her highness does from time to time,” Carey told her. 

“Perhaps,” Anne replied. “She will for certain though when you men go off to war and leave England to us women.”

Carey shifted back and forth and Anne smiled all the more broadly.

“Does it scare you?” Anne asked him. “I’m looking forward to it. It’ll be fun to see ze world turned on its head. Up will become down and right will flip to left.”

“I’m surprised that my lady is so eager for a war against her mother land,” Carey replied. Anne kept her smile on her face and took a step forward. 

_French woman._ Anne thought, heart jumping in her chest. _Pretty, pretty French girl._

“I am as English as you are, dear _brozzer_ ,” Anne told him. “Blood runs thicker than water.”

 _The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,_ Anne thought. 

“France may not have born you, Anne,” Carey replied. “But she certainly nursed you.”

 _Ah, so you know it too?_ Anne thought. _What fun is this?_

“We all ‘ave poison to purge from our bodies, brozzer,” Anne said, changing tact. “Were I a man I could spill blood to rid myself of the taint of my upbringing but, alas, I am a woman.”

“I’ve heard tell you’re a witch,” Carey replied. 

“I’ve heard tell Blount and Mary and I lie in the King’s bed together, naked and let him have us, one by one,” Anne replied. “But you would know more about zat than I would? Wouldn’t you?”

“What do you want, Boleyn?” He snapped clearly growing tired of their game. 

“Have you decided what you want yet?” Anne inquired. 

“Yes,” He barked as he began to walk past her. “And it’s to bloody wake up the day of my wedding, find this was a dream and leave your sister at the altar!”

“Wouldn’t the _both_ of us have been better off for it,” Anne replied with a bemused chuckle. She turned and fell into step beside him. Her heels and his boots clacked and thumped against the stone as they walked. 

“Tell me,” Carey asked Anne. “What business of mine is yours?”

“We Boleyns are a family business,” Anne replied. “But my sister is a Carey now, not a Boleyn, despite what you might wish. She brought you wealth and will, God willing, one day give you a child.”

“A red haired giant perhaps,” Carey snorted. Anne shook her head. 

“You drink with enough of the King’s Grooms to know who comes in and out of his bed.” Anne reminded him.

“And the King drinks with you Boleyns.” Carey replied. 

“Yes,” Anne acknowledged. “And loses money to us every night. Would you like to share in the spoils?”

“Well,” Carey said. “If that’s an invitation I’ll have to decline.”

“I was actually hoping you’d come to dinner in my father and mozzer’s chambers,” Anne told him, tilting her head to the side and smiling. “You’d be welcome to drink from our cups for as long as you please.”

“When?” Carey replied. 

Twas just past midnight on the Friday before her family dinner and Anne was staring at the man next to her. _Cet homme’s_ eyes were fixed on his cards, an unhappy frown upon his pink, beer stained mouth. He’d brushed his curls to the side. They’d lightened even more in the summer sun so that they were somewhat closer to ginger than the darker tones they’d held in le printemps- _spring_. 

The King looked at her out of the corner of his eye and Anne did not look away, too drunk, too tired and far too stubborn to be embarrassed. He smiled softly before he spoke.

“You Boleyns are the cruelest of snakes,” He said. “Slithering up my thighs into my purse and leaving with a belly full of gold.”

Anne looked over at Mary but saw that it was Madge’s face that was pink. Not as pink as Compton’s though. Anne snorted in amusement and set her cards facedown on the table. She interlaced her fingers and twisted her body to the side. The movement was uncomfortable and Anne privately cursed her stiff english bodice. She rested her elbows on the arms of her chair and table, respectively, and looked back at the King.

“What can we do when your purse is so fat it’s bulging at ze seams?” Anne asked. “Do you think your loyal subject would beggar you?”

The King chortled softly and grabbed his wine glass. Anne, far too drunk to have any sense, glanced down at _cet homme’s_ thighs. He had nice calves, some of the best everyone claimed to have seen. Anne much preferred shoulders or waists but she had to acknowledge that they were finely made. 

His thighs were better, not heavy but somewhat thick but not so much that they didn’t fit his skinny frame. His hose were plenty tight. Far too much so in Anne’s opinion. His jerkin covered his hips along with his groin. Anne wondered whether he was as big as Harry Percy. He was taller than her amant- _lover_ -by a head. Harry only came up to the King’s chin, like most men. Harry wore laces with his hose and Anne liked to undo them. She liked to watch the curls on his groin slowly, slowly appear. He didn’t really wear pants on account he didn’t like them.

Anne thought it was just an excuse to get his hose washed more frequently. 

“At least, his highness won’t be the only one funding your wardrobes, ladies.” Compton sighed. Anne turned her head and looked at him. 

_Mary mère de Dieu,_ Anne thought. _I’ll need to tuck in with Harry tomorrow._

She’d become rather accustomed to having her pleasure on a regular basis. 

“I am in need of a new hat, Mister Compton,” Madge told Will. “I’ll have my milliner send you the bill.”

“Thank Jesus I don’t have a wife,” The gentlemen muttered. 

“We’re just as grateful to not have you as a ‘usband,” Anne told him. 

“I pity those men!” Hal laughed from besides Anne. 

“Oh,” Anne replied. “I know _you_ do.”

She tilted her chin up and smiled at him. Anne truly pitied the woman who had married this man; despite the fact she was, well, _Catalina d’Aragona_. 

“Why?” Mary asked, frowning. She was probably the soberist or, well, _least drunk_ at the table. 

“‘E doesn’t,” Anne assured her sister. “He’d love to be wedded to any of us.”

Anne reached around Hal to grab the pitcher of dragon’s breath. He put his palm over the top and looked at Anne with a rather stern expression. 

“I _am_ married, Anna.” Hal told her. 

“Obviously, ‘Al.” Anne replied and flicked his hand. She didn’t really mind the miniscule half-sting of pain. He lifted his hand up and glowered at her before shaking it out. 

“Sorry,” Anne slurred and grabbed the pitcher. She carefully filled her glass, managing not to spill any, despite her drunk, shaking hands. 

“No wonder your brother bowed out for the night,” Compton said. “We’ve nearly drunkin him into debt at this point.”

“He needs to stop gambling,” Mary mused. “That’s what’s driving him to the money lender.”

They were in Compton’s rooms. He had nicer furniture than George but wore less jewels. Anne supposed he’d traded style for comfort. The Queen seemed to be of the same mindset though Anne supposed the blackwork she often wore was à la mode. Not to Anne’s taste but then again elle n’était pas espagnole- _she was not spanish_. 

Hal- _le fucking roi_ -had blackwork on his collar, just like Compton did, though Compton’s collar was barely visible beneath his doublet. 

Anne could see how Hal’s adam's apple bobbed when he drank. 

“Who’s turn is it?” Madge asked. Compton shrugged. 

“Your’s,” Mary said. 

Anne shuffled her card into a neat stack and picked her glass up in her left hand. With the right she lifted her cards and used her thumb to spread them just wide enough to see what they were. Then she took a sip and enjoyed the way the beer burned it’s way down her throat. Anne uncrossed her ankles and shifted around in her seat.

“I have a King.” Madge announced happily. She placed the King of Hearts, an Ace of Clubs and the Queen of Clubs down in front of them. Anne felt a foot nudge hers under the table. She nudged it back and looked over at Hal. His glazed over, hazy, drunk eyes were fixed on her. 

“Shut your mouth before you drool, your ‘ighness.” Anne said sarcastically. He chortled merrily, shut his mouth and nudged her foot under the table again. Anne wriggled her right foot out of her heel and then hooked her ankle around the back of his calf so that his shinbone was cradled in the arch of her foot. Anne giggled again as Mary handed down her cards. 

“Ehem,” Madge said. “If you wouldn’t mind _La Anna.”_

“Don’t call me that,” Anne grumbled back but put her cards down on the table.

“Fuck,” Compton swore and then slapped his hand over his mouth.

“Bloody fuck,” Anne replied. She felt her throat riot and her nose burn as _cet homme_ choked on his beer.

“Be careful!” Anne barked and began wheezing right alongside him. 

_Why are you a clumsy fool?_ Anne whined to herself. Anne reached over his shoulder and slapped him hard on the back. The King hacked and waved her off. 

“ _Ehem_ ,” Madge said again. “Anne, could you pass me the beer please?”

“We ‘ave none left.” She told Madge as she began to gather her winnings. _Cet homme_ coughed again and Anne raised a hand to claw at her throat, swallowing down the pain. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Anne saw Hal grab his wine from the corner of her eye. He passed it to Madge and Anne glowered at her jolly face. That made the blonde’s smile waver, _oh, so slightly_ but then Anne’s sister leaned over and whispered something in her ear. Madge’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull and she laughed wildly, likely at Anne‘s expense.

Anne cleared her throat but when she spoke her voice was so raspy it sounded like a man’s. 

“Then I say we’re done for the evening,” Compton announced. “I’ve lost a month’s worth of money to you, Boleyn.”

“Zen per’aps you ought to gamble with people who are not me.” Anne slurred. Then she reached for her winnings. A harge, pale hand grabbed her wrist, stilling the movements of her arm. Anne looked over at _cet homme_ as he tossed his aces down next to her two Kings and Queen. 

“I win,” Hal announced.

“You cheat.” Anne replied.

“So do you,” Mary piped up. Anne glowered at her. Hal tugged her hand toward him, distracting her from sa petite soeur- _her little sister_.

“My god, Boleyn!” Madge barked. “You’ve invited me to a cabal of cheats.”

“Ooh,” Anne said, looking away from _cet homme_ . “ _Fancy_.”

“Why, yes,” Madge replied. “I did pay attention to my tutors.”

“And they taught you about cabals?” Mary giggled. 

“What’s a cabal?” Compton asked.

“Political clique,” Anne shrugged.  
“And what bill are we trying to get through Parliament?” Madge asked.

“I’m not sure yet.” The King muttered.

“Zey won’t want to raise your taxes will they?” Anne asked.

“They passed my increase last year, little creeper.” Hal _-the King-_ replied.

“Congratulations.” Anne sniffed. “It was an honor to have added to your royal coffers.”

 _Cet homme_ rubbed the back of her wrist gently and hummed. Anne looked down at his hand and saw his blue stoned wedding ring on his finger but she was drunk enough not to pull away. Hal was looking at her mouth. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. 

“You’re drunk,” Anne told him. 

“So are you,” Hal replied. Anne shook her head and lifted her free hand to her mouth, desperately wanting to gnaw at a nail before she caught herself and fingered the rubies around her neck. 

“I’ve never been _that_ drunk.” Anne informed him.

“I really think we ought to be going,” Madge announced. 

“Yes,” Anne replied and crawled out of her seat onto her unsteady feet. She bent down and pulled her stiletto out from under the table. 

“Is that another gift from the Queen of France?” The King asked, looking down at the heavy jewels hanging around her neck. Anne tugged her arm from his grip. 

“Non,” Anne replied. “Le Duc de Longueville. We were courting.”

“Has there ever been a time in your life when a man wasn’t wooing you?” _Cet homme_ asked. 

“No!” Mary giggled. 

“I was a child once,” She told him. Hal rose from his seat and reached for her as she got up, hand not snatching the necklace as she expected but coming to rest gently on her throat. Anne’s drunk heart stopped in her chest. She knew, objectively that his hands were massive in comparison to every part of her body. 

He’d touched her before after all. He had petted her neck, comme si elle était une chatte- _as if she was a cat-_ or a toy. 

This was different. He had his fingers curled around the side of her neck and his palm along her windpipe. His thumb was on the bone of her chin, tilting her head up.

 _Please,_ Anne thought, wondering if he could feel the ghostly weight of his hand on his own neck. _Please, God have some mercy upon me._

She wasn’t sure if she wanted the second to pass so she could leave or for him to demand the _truth_ from her so she could leave with him. 

Instead, the King, after barely a second’s pause leaned toward her, pretty, wine stained, chapped lips parted. 

“So you didn’t come out of the sea fully formed.” Madge called, opening the door, having noticed nothing. Anne jerked away from Hal. He quickly lowered his hand. 

“Can it, Madge.” Anne sighed, curtseyed and made to stumble to the door. Then she was grabbed by the shoulder. 

“Do you prefer rubies or pearls?” _Cet homme_ asked. Anne went rigid and felt her eyes nearly bug out of her head. 

“I prefer gifts from men who actually know what I like.” Anne said. She walked out of the room, doing her best not to stumble. 

“Little creeper?” Mary asked later when she clambered into bed. 

“Go to fucking sleep, Mary.” Anne replied as she buried her face in her pillow, throat burning. Her idiot soulmate was throwing up. 

The King and Queen dined in private that Sunday and likely went to bed before their plates were clean. They’d done that a dozen times since the Queen’s blood had returned. 

Anne only heard about it after the fact. 

She’d been too busy having dinner with her family, or, rather, her family sans George who claimed he was attending the King. 

Anne said nothing.

 _Good for Jane,_ She’d thought. _Good for mon petit frére-my little brother._

Anne showed up fashionably late to see Mary sitting between her parents, tittering with her mother over something or other. She had a headache, likely of her own making but the feeling of pressure rhythmically being eased and returning to her temples told her differently.

She tossed herself lazily into the chair across from her sister and mother and began to pick at a nail, not taking her heavily lidded eyes off of them.

“You’re late, Annamarie,” Her mother informed her. 

“I know,” Anne replied. She glanced down at her fingers and noticed that her yellow, tailored neckline was still sitting just a bit too low. Anne fought the urge to sigh. Anne would probably have to take her damn dress back to the seamstress with drawn instructions on what she wanted done to it. It was nearly two, two and a half months since she’d gotten the thing and she still hadn’t gotten the collar quite right, regardless of how Harry appreciated the view. The English seamstresses were much too used to lower necklines as English women did like their embroidered smocks. 

Mary was wearing that one Anne had made for her. 

It wasn’t as elaborate as the ones the Queen or most of the other women wore during the full court. Everything had truly become a bit more slack during the summer but, then again, everyone spent most of the day in riding habits. 

Unless your name was Henry VIII, King of England, Ireland and France. The man had debuted at least four new doublets in the past week. 

“What’s kept you?” Her mother asked. 

“I was finishing the book the King loaned me,” Anne told her. “He rather enjoys companions who he can debate with.”

“And win,” Mary added. Anne shrugged. Their time wasn’t quite a debate, more like a strange extended game. 

_Isn’t everything at court, though?_ Anne thought and then shook herself. 

This wasn’t _dice_ , for God’s sake. 

“Per’aps,” Anne replied. “He ‘as the dignity not to tantrum when he loses though.”

“Must we talk about this?” Elizabeth Boleyn snapped, voice suddenly high and fragile. Anne’s eyes met her mother’s to see that they were growing wet. Elizabeth Boleyn sniffed, twitched her nose, blinked and tilted her chin up.

“You asked.” Anne replied flatly. There was a moment’s silence before Thomas Boleyn spoke. 

“James Butler is to return to England if we go to war,” He said. “His father would like him married beforehand if the match can be fixed.” 

“And then go to France,” Anne replied and then nodded her head to Mary. “With our good Master Carey?”

“He’s wanted a war since the King first insulted the French Ambassador,” Mary replied. “He used to say he hoped the Scots caused trouble just so he could earn his spurs.”

“They’ll be causing trouble when we do go,” Thomas grumbled. 

“Why’s he delaying the announcement?” Anne inquired. She grabbed the chicken and pulled it over to her before tearing off a leg and a wing. Anne hadn’t had more than a few mouthfuls all day.

“For a properly dramatic moment,” Thomas shrugged.

“He’ll probably do it when we get back to Hampton,” Mary replied. “The Queen was telling the Lady De Cardonas that we’d be going back sooner rather than later.”

 _Good,_ Anne thought. _I’ve just about got those hallways memorized._

Anne really needed to spend more time sewing with Catalina D’Aragona. Perhaps she’d become a better seamstress. 

“So the court won’t be breaking up?” Anne asked. 

“No,” Elizabeth replied. “You’ve got nothing to worry about anyways, sweetheart. We wouldn’t let you get sent home.”

 _I was not worried,_ Anne nearly replied. _I’ve got a dozen other things to worry about, haven’t I?_

“How’d your marriage get arranged?” Anne asked her sister. Mary promptly shoveled a bite of meat pie into her mouth to avoid the question. 

“Your Uncle made an introduction,” Thomas Boleyn replied. “He liked Mary, wanted to go for an embassy and it made sense.”

“He wanted to go to Portugal,” Elizabeth told Anne. Anne looked at Mary, who was quietly taking another bite of her pie.

 _Say something,_ Anne thought as she watched the little blonde just eat and eat. 

“Not Austria?” Anne replied. 

_And now he’s a drunk,_ Anne remembered, looking around the table. Suddenly, she wanted to spit the chicken out of her mouth. _What the hell were you two thinking?_

“I thought Anne wasn’t going to marry Butler until after you got back from Austria,” Mary said. Then she sipped her wine, deliberately not looking at Anne. Anne set down her knife and swallowed. 

“Why wasn’t I told zis?” Anne asked sharply. Her father raised his eyebrows at her.

“Even now, I doubt it’ll happen,” He said dismissively. Anne felt a flash of fury in her chest.

“ _Why?_ ” She snapped. “You ‘ave been negotiating wiz Butler since I was _ten._ ”

“Lord Percy’s a much better match,” Anne's mother scoffed. 

“Your dowry,” Her father replied bluntly. Anne bit down a laugh.

 _What dowry?_ She thought. Then she realised what they were referring to. Anne grabbed the arms of her chair and took a deep breath. Her heart started to hammer in her chest and her stomach flipped. 

_If I vomit,_ She thought. _They might think that that rumor about a baby’s true._

As if Blount or the Queen would have the happy flush in their cheeks that only came from a lover’s touch if _it_ was. 

“The fifteen thousand francs?” Anne spat out. “Zat’s what? 19,000 when you put it with what you didn’t spend on Mary?”

“What do you mean by that?” Elizabeth Boleyn replied.

 _Do you really want to know?_ Anne thought. She assumed not. 

She also didn’t care.

“In France,” Anne drawled. “Everyone thought she must’ve been pregnant when they ‘eard.”

 _Afterall, why would such a little girl get married before me?_ Anne thought. 

Mary spluttered and Elizabeth Boleyn’s face went red with fury but before either of them could say something, Anne’s father’s page opened the door. 

“Mr. William Carey to see you,” He announced. 

“Let him in,” Thomas told the boy. Anne really should know his name.

William Carey was as well dressed as she’d ever seen him, which was to say very finely. 

_Please be drunk,_ Anne thought. It would make her father squirm and her mother’s cheeks go red with frustration. 

He swept into a deep bow and then gave Mary a kiss on top of her head before easing himself into the seat next to Anne. 

“Master Boleyn,” He said. “Mistress Boleyn. Thank you for the invitation. It was a pleasure, if an unexpected one.”

Thomas Boleyn was a skilled enough courtier to keep a look of surprise off his face but Anne’s mother openly glared at her eldest daughter. Anne tilted her chin up, smiled widely and toasted her with her glass. 

“Indeed.” Thomas replied. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before her father continued. “We have seen very little of each other recently.”

“Yes,” Carey said. “A pity, if an understandable one. We are all most occupied are we not?”

“Awfully so,” Mary told him. Her sister looked at him with bright, proud, black _Boleyn_ eyes and lifted her chin up. Anne reached over and refilled her glass. 

“Anne?” Thomas Boleyn asked, nodding his head to her untouched chicken. “Are you going to eat anything?”

Her response was to tear a chunk of meat from the bone. 

“How have you spent your summer?” Mary asked her husband. “I have not seen you amongst the hunt often.”

“I ride at the back,” He told her. “My nag of a horse can’t keep up.”

“You haven’t replaced her?” Anne asked, eyes darting between her sister and her beau frère. 

“I’m fond of her,” Carey told her. “Despite how she likes to nip me.”

Anne fought the urge to snort but her father failed. He gave her a slight grin. She imagined he was proud of the trouble she was causing. He had been when she found trouble in the French court; dallying with men far above her station with the support and under the careful eye of Anne de la Bretagne. He’d smiled when she laughed too loud but didn’t frown when her voice turned too shrill. Thomas Boleyn had seemed bemused by her the few times he saw her when she was a child.

Anne supposed she ought to be grateful to see it again. 

“Very kind of you.” Elizabeth Boleyn replied.

“Oh,” Carey waved her off. “I couldn’t bear to make her face the knife of a butcher or the dogs in the baiting pit.”

 _Smart man_ , Anne thought and looked over at her sister, wondering if she understood this game. Unfortunately, Mary’s eyes were firmly fixed on her lap, chin tilted so far back that Anne couldn’t quite make out the expression of her mouth. 

“What is it with your sister?” Jane asked her one morning as they trotted out of Woodstocks’ courtyard. Anne hadn’t tied her saddle bags properly so one was smacking against her arse. Mary had pointed it out to her right before they’d left. Anne had told her sister to go walk with the laundresses if she was going to talk like one.

In her defense, Hal had a hangover and Anne hadn’t been exactly sober the night before.

 _Two hangovers,_ Anne thought. She wondered how her soulmate was doing. _Cet homme. Damn it._

“What is what with her?” Anne replied. 

“Are you two still fighting about the King?” The blonde said. 

“We’ve never fought about the King,” Anne told her with a sigh. “Or, well, I haven’t been.”

“Is she?” Jane responded. 

“Lord knows what goes on in her head,” Anne shrugged. “Husband, beauty, money, well, _some_ money. She ought to be back in his chamber, making an heir and making him open son grand livre- _ledger_.”

“I’d sue for divorce if I ever had such an incompetant husband,” Jane scoffed. 

“We must give him a pass, though,” Anne mused. “He’s very _noble._ ”

Madge trotted her pretty grey mare up to her two friends, a new feathered cap sitting high on her blond head. It was in la même mode francaise- _the same French style-_ as the long caul she wore over her hair. 

“Who are we divorcing?” She asked. “And how are we getting it done?”

“Henry Carey,” Anne told her. “And I’m thinking dereliction of marital duties.”

“No, do sodomy,” Madge replied. 

“Everyone commits sodomy,” Jane said. 

“Zat is a mental image I did not need, zank you very much,” Anne grumbled. Madge winked at her and laughed.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn 8,857 words aka over double the average amount of the last chapter.  
> The next four or five are also going to be massive as I've now, finally got an outline written up and have a LOT of ground to cover very, very quickly. I've finally gotten around to doing an outline for this and was frankly considering re-writing it to be more historically accurate (Henry declaring war in April) as I could have dropped Anne in a xenophobic court and extremely politically fraught situations right away. It would also make Henry's revelation that this "frenchwoman" is his soulmate much more of a slap in the face. But I don't have the time and that could have (would have) gotten dark very fast.  
> Secondly, I didn't finish some of my translations because I am fed up with this chapter but I might go back this weekend and do them.  
> Thirdly, William Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury was the Lord Chancellor from 1504-1515. In Virtuous Prince by David Starkey (yes I know...) he states that Wolsey could often be at odds/ was disliked by "the old guard" even before 1513/14 for his ability/willingness to enable Henry. The Privy Council did not want Henry going to war (neither did Wolsey in my opinion but he was too ambitious not to see an opportunity when it popped up). 
> 
> Fourthly, THE SPANISH PRINCESS SEASON 2 TRAILER IS OUT AND I AM EXCITED AS I WAS FOR SEASON 8 OF GOT. 
> 
> I also expect to be disappointed. 
> 
> What I will say is that I am so glad that the hairstyles are more elaborate (and up) and I like the costumes as well as the overall aesthetic they seem to be going for for the women. The new hair color they have for Catherine looks really great on Charlotte and might be closer to the actual COA's hair color. Henry's hair should be lighter but I am not going to complain when he's wearing it in a side part but it's not that great when slicked back (I'm not saying I predicted it but that's what it looks like when Anne grumbles about his hair in previous chapters). Also it should be lighter but do what you can (re-bleaching and re-dying an actors hair several times during a shoot must be a hassle and this color will hide Ruairi's roots better). Quarantine does weird things to you. 
> 
> I'm also back on Tumblr so come squee at me there if you want. 
> 
> Comments are my caffeine so let me know what you think!
> 
> Edit: I did my translations! Also Michelle de Soubise was one of Anne of Brittany's ladies in waiting and apparently a close friend. In this AU, Anne would have likely been around her a lot.


	13. July 1512: A horrible patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What would you do to me, La Anna, if you could?” Henry replied. Anne looked at him straight on, blinked once and smiled a little quarked half mouth thing. 
> 
> “I’d know what you think of my book.” Anne told him. 

When Anne was summoned to the King’s rooms she wore her hunting gown and had a few wild, rebellious strands of curly hair sticking out of her net. It had been a private invitation and Compton, accordingly, snuck her in through the back hall. 

Anne personally thought that it was the more public arena. They passed a maid, two servants, one who was carrying a piss pot, a maid and one page boy running, as they all seemed to do, at a full sprint. Anne knew rather well what that was like, save for the fact that pages were sent much more frequently to the kitchen and men’s chambers. Her mistress had counted her amongst her most trusted; amongst the eight noble women who joined her in confinement; le plus fidèle de la Bretagne- _Brittany’s most faithful._

“Are you growing your hair out?” She asked the older man as they came up to the door to Henry’s library. Anne was eyeing the freshly washed, brown strands that were down to his cheekbones.

“Do you think it suits me?” Compton asked.

“Does your sweetheart think so?” Anne croaked out. Compton shrugged. 

“Well,” Anne said. “Ask her then.”

“I will,” Compton assured her. “Perhaps you ought to ask the King about his thoughts on socks.”

“Perhaps he ought to talk to his wife,” Anne replied bemusedly. “Her highness doesn’t wear them.”

“More’s the pity,” Compton said. 

This time around she had two books in hand; one new with its leather smooth beneath her fingers; the other old with pages stained by children’s dirty fingers. The second was her’s. It hadn’t always been. Afterall, she had stolen it. 

Anne tucked the two under her arm and loosened her high collar as she walked behind Compton, tugging it wide enough that she could feel the air cool her sweaty skin. The day had been the hottest one since Anne had arrived in England, resulting in her having to _enjoy_ the feeling of sweat dripping down her back and off her long nose. 

She was acutely aware of the back of her throat. The slowly growing soreness was exacerbated both by the chilled air inside of Woodstock and by sharp wind outside. It had continually attempted to tear her hat from her head all day long. And for the previous three days. Four. Perhaps five, if she thought about it. 

The English weather truly was horrendous. 

As was the smirk on Compton’s face when he let her into the library. Anne blessed him with a glare before sweeping through the door and dropping into a curtsy. 

_Cet homme_ was at his desk, looking over a map with chess pieces set on top of it. He glanced over at her and grinned.

“One moment, Anna,” He said. She walked over to the table and studied the board. They would be going straight out from Calais targeting ville après ville, chacune séparément- _city after city, one by one_. 

Anne looked more closely and recognised most, not by their names, but the places on the map. She had visited most of them, if not all. 

She dropped the two books right under Hal’s nose, covering up where Nantes sat on the map. He peered up at her, one pretty, loose curl dangling over his forehead. 

“What’s this?” He asked. 

“I found you a book you’ve never read,” Anne informed him. “Per’aps you don't even own it.”

He grinned at her in surprise before picking up her book and turning it over in his hand. 

“ _La Chronique française de Londres_ _,”_ He read aloud, straightening up from where he’d been bent over the desk. “This is, what, newly printed? Badly bound, though.”

“It was written thirty odd years ago,” Anne told him. Hal’s eyebrows shot up his sunburned forehead. 

“Who gave it to you?”

 _Je l’ai volé-I stole it,_ Anne thought.

“I bought it,” She told him. “Off a merchant who didn’t truly know it’s worz.”

“A pity,” _Cet homme_ said and opened it carefully. His eyes lit up at the sight of painted golden figures 

“There’s no author,” He mused. 

Anne shrugged and perched herself on the edge of the desk as he meandered around it, looking through her book. Anne crossed one leg over the other and picked up the chess piece next to her. 

It wasn’t really a chest piece. It was a little, red block with the head of a roaring lion on it. An English legion, moving across this flat, monotone, paper France, as one gigantic, singular entity. A mass of inflexible _something_ coming upon them, tall as the Tower of Babel, leaving little specks of paint behind it. Or it would, if Anne’s nails were long enough to scratch the uneven bits along the edges loose from where they suck out from the wood. 

_Hastily made_ , Anne thought.

When she looked up _cet homme_ was looking at her curiously. 

“What?” She said.

“What are you thinking about?” Hal asked. 

“You ‘ave a wonderful map,” Anne told him. 

_Vague, unchanging,_ She thought. _A vaste uninhabited waste with nothing to bleed in it. Or not._ _Il aimait-he loves-killing things._

“It was my father’s,” The King told her, waving the book toward her in the air. “He collected them.”

“Really?” Anne replied. “‘Ow did ‘e start doing zat?”

“My Lady Grandmother would send him maps of wherever she was living and of his lands when he was away,” Henry told her. “They rarely lived together when he was a child.” 

“Kind of her,” Anne replied. 

“She had to smuggle them sewn into the jackets and shirts she’d made for him,” Henry continued. “Before her sight failed she always seemed to have the notion that all of her boys were always cold.”

“Did she call you that?” Anne asked. 

“My father did,” Henry told her. “Whenever I complained about her meddling. We were _all her beloved boys._ ”

“I am told she meddled a lot,” Anne replied. 

“You cannot imagine.” Hal said.

Anne laughed and rolled the little figurine around in her fingers. 

_A hundred men,_ Anne thought. _Five hundred men marching across dusty; grassy; forested land. Over flat fields; rolling hills; paved Roman roads; into stinking cities. Five hundred Englishmen stalking French women; men; children like hounds after foxes._

“Do you like it?” Henry asked her, nodding to the little lion in her hand. Anne set it back down on the map, closer to the drawing that marked Paris. 

“‘Astily made,” Anne observed. “But practical.”

“I’m afraid that such are the requirements of wartimes,” Hal told her and went back to flipping through her book.

“Yes,” Anne hummed, reached up and scratched the spot on the back of her jaw that was swelling into an angry pimple. She really ought to try and hide it but, if he wanted her properly dressed and cleaned up, he could have asked for her tomorrow morning. Anne further loosened her collar, pulling it open to show her collarbone and part of her chest. 

“What do you think of Henry II?” Hal asked her. Anne hummed and scratched her nose.

“He was a powerful man.” Anne replied. “A bad tempered one, cruel but intelligent and lucky.”

“Lucky?” Henry snorted. “He earned his place on the throne with steel and bravery.”

“Eleanor of Aquitaine’s annulment was not a stroke of luck?” Anne asked. The King looked over and his eyes widened. Anne cocked her head and smiled softly. “What?”

“You have a beautiful neck,” Hal replied. 

“Is zat why...you touched it?” Anne asked “Back in April?”

“What?” Henry replied, wrinkling up his nose and knitting his brow in confusion.

“When ze Spanish Ambassador came,” Anne reminded him. His face relaxed and he walked toward her. 

“I don’t remember you complaining,” Henry snorted. 

_Of course not,_ Anne thought. _I like the feeling of your touch more than that of most._

 _Oh, merde-shit._

“What would you ‘ave done if I ‘ad?” Anne replied. “Did you even know my name zen?”

He stood off to the side of her, leaning himself against the bookcase immediately to the left of the table. He kept his hands and her book behind his back and looked at her almost warily.

“Yes,” Henry said easily. “ _Anna Bolaine._ ”

Hal looked tired, worn and, likely, somewhat overwhelmed. Anne wondered if he didn’t eat when he was busy but, then again, she’d _seen_ him at feasts. 

He ate like a starved hunting dog or a cow that was just about ready for the butcher’s knife. 

“Fascinating,” Anne replied. “I am not entirely certain ‘ow your highness ‘as managed to continually mistake me for another woman for months but…”

“Anne,” The King said and smiled. “I think it would have been impossible for me not to know who you were.”

“So Mary mentioned me?” Anne asked in a fit of immaturity unsuitable for her position.

“No actually,” The King said. “You draw my gaze wherever you go and it is nigh impossible to look away.”

Anne wondered what would happen if she told him _why_ he did that. Instead she reached over and tapped Paris with one ragged nail. 

She wondered if he’d fall over in a dead faint or laugh or call her liar or bend her over the table like her mother feared or simply hold her against him until the sun crept back beneath the earth and night fell. 

“Do you zink you’ll make it all the way zere?” She asked and flicked her eye back to him, peering from beneath her lashes.

“Would you come with me if I did?” Hal replied. 

“Why would I want to?” Anne asked. 

“You miss it don’t you? France?” The King said. 

“No,” Anne told him and put her hands in her lap. “I miss her like a newly weaned babe misses her wetnurse, but no more zan zat.”

 _I miss ma reine,_ Anne thought. _Little Princess Claude’s hands tugging at my skirt. Even le roi’s merry disposition, pleasant manner and unwelcome paternal head pats._

Henry was very much his opposite but, then again, Louis was not trying to bed her.

“Would you like to go back?” Henry asked. “At the head of the army? With an entire city crying the name of their rightful king?”

She remembered Paris with it’d cramped blocks and high walls and city guard. She remembered riding through it beside her Queen and listening to the crowds’ shouts. She remembered how they had cheered when Cesare Borgia had come to find a wife; draped in cloth of gold and nose showing none of the rot that would one day tell of the Venetian sickness he was said to have. 

_Put on a pretty enough show and men will cheer for anyone_ , Anne thought.

“If they ‘aven’t the good sense to flee,” Anne told him. “I’ll come see you when zey’ve returned and roses are hung from every street corner.”

“When I’ve betrothed Princess Claude to my son and your old mistress has been returned to her Duchy?” Henry asked. Anne smiled softly at him. 

“So you imagine yourself Henry the Fifth?” Anne replied. 

“I,” Hal said and stepped toward her. “Am _Henry the Eighth_.”

“And what does that mean?” Anne asked and hopped off the table. “Your highness?”

Henry looked at her for a moment, seemingly puzzled. Anne looked at him straight on, trying to decide if he was offended or not. He stepped toward her carefully as if she might bolt.

“What does Anne Boleyn mean, Anna?” He asked.

“Me,” Anne replied a shrug. 

“Well,” Henry said. “I suppose Henry VIII is me then.”

“And who exactly are you?” Anne inquired impulsively. It was a true type of question. One that demanded a true answer or an evasion so disgustingly obvious that even Mary would catch it. 

He stepped closer, reached out and took her hand. 

“A man who happens to be besotted with you,” Henry told her. “One of many.”

 _Vous êtes vraiment un homme rusé-you are truly a cunning man,_ Anne thought. 

Mary would have believed it. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure of zat,” Anne replied. “I don’t loan my books to anyone.”

“Indeed,” Henry chuckled, face lighting up. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them as if the hand in his belonged to his wife. 

“You take very good care of yours,” Anne backtracked easily.

“Of course,” Henry replied. “I take the best of care of the things I value.”

“Unless you are in a much needed hurry,” Anne said. 

“You are not a battlefield,” He told her. 

“Am I?” Anne chirped.

“You are a gem,” He said. “Some impossible jewel long hidden in a dragon’s hoarde.”

“Thankfully, zere is no need for you to play St. George,” Anne replied. 

“It’s a good thing for the dragon that you escaped before I could,” Henry told her. He lifted her hand again and turned it over so he was looking at her palm.

“So where will I be kept?” Anne asked. “In the drawer with your favorite gold broach or just below your beloved chain of ruby and pearl?”

“In here,” Hal snorted. “Somewhere between _The Iliad_ and my copy of _Malleus_ , though I suppose I’ll have to move you when you’ve finished all of them.”

“Up on a shelf?” Anne sneered. “You’d lose a talented dancer, your ‘ighness.”

“Really?” Henry grinned widely at her, clearly ignoring her expression. “So I might have you back on my arm?”

He had left her and Harry alone in the evenings; not once approaching her even when she was without a dancing partner _._ He let her and Harry _be_. 

Anne carefully pulled her hand from his grasp and set it on his chest, just beneath his collarbone.

“Why did you touch my neck?” Anne asked. He set her book down on the table next to them, looking away from her to do so. 

“I don’t know,” Henry replied harshly. “I don’t _know_.”

“Because you wanted to?” Anne inferred. “Because you could?”

Henry snorted and grinned at her easily. She moved her hand down his chest until she was resting it above where she knew his lungs. 

“What would you do to me, _La Anna,_ if you could?” Henry replied. Anne looked at him straight on, blinked once and smiled a little quarked half mouth thing. 

“I’d know what you think of my book.” Anne told. 

He chuckled and shook his head.

“I shall have it finished before the day is out,” He told her. Anne snickered at him. The book was a good three hundred pages, much too thick to be read before the light was lost even for the most studious of men. “If, of course, my little creeper has time to read it to me.”

“Would you have me banish all my other companions for the sake of you?” Anne asked. 

“No,” Henry said and put a hand on her lower back, pulling her to him. “I’m rather fond of Madge.”

“And she of you,” Anne told him. He dipped his head down to stick his nose in her hair.

“You smell of horse,” He said. 

“I _am_ in my riding ‘abit, Hal” Anne informed him. He looked down at her chest and then back up to her face. 

“I am well aware of that, Anna,” He told her. Anne thought back to the rumor Mary had been daft enough to whisper in her ear; of the King taking some pretty Diana in bushes while on a hunt. 

She hadn’t thought that he might like to be the stallion, on his back with a woman astride him. 

“Hmmph,” She sniffed. “Tell me about your first horse.”

“I don’t remember,” Henry said and propped his chin on her head. “I was little more than a babe when I was first put in a saddle. They knighted me when I was-what?-three I think.”

“Do you remember that?” Anne inquired and stepped slightly back. When she looked up at him, she could have sworn he was pouting. 

“Vaguely,” Hal told her. “I remember being terribly hungry, tired, cold and, yet, it was something holy, unlike anything else I’ve experienced. It was the first time I knew God.”

“And when you were crowned?” Anne asked. He smiled and shook his head, then it seemed to fade away.

“I tore the stitches in my arm that morning,” The King said. “From, well….”

“De la Pole,” Anne inferred.

“So I was in pain,” He continued. “And sweating through my shirt.”

“In _June_?” Anne asked in disbelief. She remembered the burning sensation that had run from her wrist to her elbow most days and all the way to her shoulder on some others.

“It was an abnormally hot year,” Henry conceded. “I had to change between the coronation and the feast. It was unpleasant.”

She had been enraged at the almost constant instinct to curl her arm close to her body. She remembered nearly weeping when ses médécins had insisted on having her put it in a sling to relieve her hysteria. 

Bloody twats. 

_Hal hadn’t taken opium_ , Anne realized. _Or not enough of it._

“Did you ‘ave an infection?” Anne asked him. Hal looked somewhat shocked.

“Who told you that?” He replied, eyes hard and mouth tight. 

“I _guessed_ ,” Anne informed him. “I couldn’t imagine England being _that_ hot.”

Henry’s face twisted into a worried expression. 

“Have you caught chills?” He asked. 

“No.” Anne replied. “My constitution, zankfully, is rather strong.”

Henry nodded his head in agreement. Then he reached out and swept an arm around her waist. 

“Like Eleanor of Aquitaine, perhaps,” Henry told her. “But tell me, little creeper, have you ever been to Thérouanne?”

“No,” Anne lied. “Unfortunately not.”

It was not a large town persay, walled but surely unable à résister la puissance complète d’Angleterre- _to resist the full might of England_ . Elle aimait bien cette ville, mais elle n’a pas visité pendant son voyage à l’Angleterre- _she liked that city but she had not visited it during her trip to England._

Back to England.

 _“_ You could come with me,” Hal said. He sounded genuinely hopeful. 

“Have you gone mad?” Anne snapped. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“I doubt anything could worsen your reputation,” The King replied. “And you’d make a pretty translator.”

“Why don’t you take Blount?” Anne asked, pulling away from him, fury building slowly in her belly. “But you’ve already ruined her haven’t you?”

“What business is that of yours?” Henry asked. His eyes went cold, hard; angrier than Anne had ever seen them.

“Ze same as every other Englishman,” Anne told him. “Where you get your bastards affects us all. An overmighty one will bring a war on our heads.”

“And protect my line,” Henry snapped. “You speak the same treason as your kin.”

“Treason?” Anne replied, smiling at him, baring her teeth. 

_Careful, Careful,_ She thought. _Pretty, pretty French girl. That’s what he wants._

_No, it isn’t._

“I am from a house of _diplomats_ ,” Anne told him carefully. “Such trickery serves you well does it not? In France? In Venice? In Rome? In Austria? My father worked against Warbeck when you were but a babe, spying and bribing for England and, yet, when faced with Howard; with the power of a Duke; with the greed of a man he calls brother you expect him to charge-you expect _me_ -to charge into a fight Brandon or Knivert or any other of your jousters when that is not our nature.”

 _And I’m the best of the lot._ She did not say that.

“What does your father do on my behalf that you would claim he is loyal?” The King asked. “Did he guide your hand in warning me? Or did he write your letter and have you sign your name?”

“Do you think he is such a fool?” Anne replied. “He begs Carey, your highness’ cousin to dine with my family in hope that some love might spark between him and my sister.”

“Has it worked?” The King chuckled.

“I would not know,” Anne said. “My sister doesn’t like me much.”

“I wonder why,” The King snorted and shook his head. “Does she take you for a fool?”

“I beg your pardon?” Anne replied, all but recoiling from him in disgust. _That_ was an insult she had never heard before. 

“You called yourself a fool for writing to me,” Henry said. His eyes were still as flat and unwelcoming as a tombstone. 

“Would I be here with you if I hadn’t?” Anne replied. “Would everything but my body have been ruined by you if I hadn’t?” 

“Yes,” There was no hesitation, no caution in his response and it made Anne’s cheeks start to warm. “Did I not tell you that I cannot help but be drawn to you as if I am a moth and you a torch?”

“To look at me,” Anne replied. “To stare like you do at a portrait; at the light that pours through the stained glass of a church window; like the pretty parrots her highness, the queen, _your wife,_ keeps as pets.”

“I have already told you that you are no _pet_ , Madame,” The King hissed, temper finally snapping. Anne was almost relieved at that.

“No,” She replied. “I am not. Nor am I a traitor or the daughter of traitors.”

Henry whipped away from her and stormed around the table to pour himself a glass of wine. He downed it swiftly and squinted at her, as if deciphering some particularly tricky cypher. Anne tucked her hands behind her back and let him look at her. He looked away, grimacing. She wondered if she made him uncomfortable but, then again, he was married to Catalina d’Aragona, a woman who had to be well practiced in making him squirm, with all the grief he caused her. When he looked up at her his lips were pursed and face so pale she thought he might faint.

“I never imagined that truth would be as cruel as you are,” He replied. Anne couldn’t help but snort at that. “Is there a single pitious bone in your body? Or is your heart so dead to mercy that you haven’t a care for others?”

“You just accused me of treason,” Anne bit back. “Why should….”

She stopped, took a sharp breath and clasped her hands in front of her to avoid chewing a nail.

“I’m sorry,” She said. “I should not have spoken of children.”

“No you shouldn’t have,” Henry said. There was a beat of silence in which Anne decidedly did not look at him. 

_You brought this on yourself,_ Anne thought at him bitterly.

“May I be excused, your highness?” Anne asked. 

“Henry,” The King replied. “My name is Henry.”

“I know,” Anne said. “I _know_.”

“You can go,” Henry told her. Anne curtsied and scurried to the door. Just before she went out, she turned back to him.

“I will save the volta for you,” She said. “If you care to take it.”

With that, she swept out. 

Anne went over and sat two seats away from William Carey, on one mildly warm morning. It placed her right next to Bessie Blount. The back of her throat felt tight and swollen and she wasn’t sure who she ought to blame.

“G’Morning.” Blount said. 

“Pass ze beer,” Anne groaned. Blount did quickly and scooted away from Anne. The dark haired woman smiled sardonically and shook her head. 

“I’m not going to vomit on you,” Anne told her. She then filled her mug up.

Anne had thrown up on Jane two nights before. It had been after the heaviest night of drinking she’d ever _not_ enjoyed. Anne was grateful that the King had left before she’d gotten tellement bourré- _that drunk_. 

Half the court probably already knew she’d broken down crying

 _The joy of having a gossip for a best friend,_ Anne thought. _Meh, I’d have clawed her face off if she’d done that to me._

“How’ve you been?” She asked more for something to say than anything else. 

“Well,” Blount replied. “I’ve missed seeing you in the mornings.” 

“Hmmm,” Anne hummed. “I was unaware you were so fond of me.”

“I miss your face,” Blount waved her hand around in the air. “It’s funny how it changes when you think you're not being watched.”

Anne watched Blount spoon porridge into her fat, awful _gob_. 

She truly loved English some days. She also owed Hal a sincere thank you for teaching her that word. If it had come from Harry Percy she would have used it as an excuse to kiss him.

She would not be kissing the King of England. 

“There’s not much to see,” Anne replied. 

“She’s started talking to me,” Blount informed her. “Mostly asking how I am and how I spend my time. Whether or not I like Woodstock. If I’m going home when court starts to break up.”

“Are you?” Anne asked.

“No,” Blount snorted. “My father’s too worried about having to host a royal visit.”

Anne’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. 

“A wise decision,” Anne replied. A royal visit could beggar Norfolk if, _if_ Hal had been right. Well, maybe, not _right_ but somewhat close to the truth. At the very least it would drain his coffers to the dregs. 

_Wisdom from the mouth of babes,_ Anne thoughts. _Or, well, Kings._

Solomon cet homme n’était pas- _Solomon that man was not._

“You’ll have to tell me what you think of everything.” Blount said. 

“What do you make of it?” Anne replied. She sipped her beer delicately and glanced over at Carey. He was speaking quickly to a sandy haired man with a scruffy beard.

 _Francis Weston,_ Anne realised. 

“She seems to be happy,” Blount told Anne. “I can’t complain about that.”

“Are you happy?” Anne replied. She took another sip and fought the urge to grimace as her throat clenched. “With ze role you play?” 

“Yes,” Blount said. “I am. Are you?”

Anne shrugged and then looked over at Carey as the man threw his head back laughing. He had a nice, soft laugh. 

“Yes,” Anne croaked. She finished her beer. 

“Good to know,” Blount responded. “Would you like to come hawking with me today?”

“I’m afraid I’ve never had the opportunity to learn how.” Anne admitted, gathering herself together. It was easier than admitting she’d never even owned a falcon yet communicated the same message. 

_Quoi?_ Anne thought. _What the hell?_

“Oh,” Blount said, easily catching onto Anne’s omission. “My brother George owns two. You can borrow one.”

“Zank you.” Anne croaked, wondering exactly what Blount was planning. 

Carey laughed again so Anne allowed herself to look at her brother-in-law. The man’s jacket was gaudy but she could see the frayed blackwork on the sleeve of his shirt. 

He really ought to put more effort into obtaining quality.

“How many siblings do you have?” Anne asked, simply for want of something to say. 

“Five,” Blount told her. “I’m the eldest. It’s just you, Mary and Jane’s George right?”

“ _Jane’s_ George?” Anne inquired and sipped her beer. 

“When’s the wedding anyways?” Blount asked. “Jane won’t tell me.”

“I’ll have to ask my father,” Anne replied. “Or Earl Rochford, whenever he gets to court.”

“You think her father would approve of the match?” Blount asked. 

“My father is the heir to the Ormond earldom,” Anne reminded her. Blount shrugged. The blonde and everyone else in this court knew very well that it would go to her Irish cousins once the present Earl died. Those bloody arses held the land while the Boleyn’s held the right. She supposed it was a bit like the Plantagenents and the Tudors. 

Force made right and right was only legitimate with force. 

“A good point,” Blount replied. Anne looked past her at Carey and wondered what she’d have to do to the King to convince him to force Butler to give up the title. 

_J'aurais besoin de l'épouser probablement-I would probably need to marry him,_ Anne thought.

The King threw out his ankle on his new tennis court and spent the rest of the day hobbling around court. If Anne had been in better health, she would have offered to show him how to properly brace one, but she was much too ill herself. Anne spent that particular evening lying in bed with a warm poultice on her neck and Mary hovering over her. 

“Go away,” Anne grunted.

“Do you want warm wine?” Mary asked. Anne draped an arm over her eye and groaned. She didn’t close her eyes and felt how her eyelashes caught on the cloth of her nightshift. 

_What to do with you?_ Anne wondered. _You’re an uninterested wife and a fool._

But so was Anne.

She snorted into her arm, trying to shake herself out of her funk. Anne was rarely sick and thus un malade horrible- _a horrible patient._ She lifted her arm up so slightly to see Mary looking down at her with a long suffering expression. 

Mary had been born too early. Leur pere a dit qu’une fois- _their father had said once-_ that she’d been even smaller than Anne but not as small as her dead twin had been. Mary had had three wetnurses until she was nearly eighteen months old. 

It had made her sweet, docile, coddled and kind, something Anne had come to realise over life was a common disposition amongst sickly children. Claude had been of a similar disposition but wiser, perhaps, even as a young girl. She was highly aware of her duty but carried it like it was a mantle of ermine and cloth of gold, like her mother had.

It would serve her well as the prat François’ wife. 

Anne thought her first memory of Mary was when her sister had un mal d’oreille- _an earache_ -but it was so blurred by age she couldn’t quite be sure. 

“Please?” Anne replied. Mary bustled away and Anne put her arm back over her eyes. 

Then her calf muscle twinged. She pointed and flexed her toes, trying to stretch it out. Anne bent her other knee up and plopped her aching calf atop it, trying to massage the knot out. After a moment she realised that there wasn’t a cramp in _her_ leg.

 _Why must you do this now?_ Anne wondered. Mary brought the wine over and Anne snatched it greedily. Her sister was playing with the curl that had slipped loose from one of the twists in her hair.

“Did you ask Madge to go with you?” Anne croaked.

“I’m not going to see George,” She replied. 

“Oh,” Anne said. “Have fun.”

 _Where are you going? Who are you going with? Please tell me you don’t have a lover._ Anne wanted to say. 

_Actually please tell me you do._

But she wanted Mary gone more so she kept her mouth shut. 

“I will,” Mary replied and then seemed to catch herself. “Will you be alright? I can stay if you want.”

“No.” Anne flicked her wrist dismissively. “Get out.”

Anne’s thigh muscle twinged and she ground her teeth. She drowned the wine in three gulps, gagged through the pain and enjoyed what it signified. _Cet homme_ was probably coughing in his wife’s face. 

“Don’t die,” Mary replied. “I don’t want to sleep next to a corpse.”

Anne sat up and threw her goblet across the room _just_ missing her sister. Mary scurried out and shut the door behind her with a slam. Anne’s knee started to spasm.

“What on God’s Good Earth are you doing?” Anne said to no one in particular.

 _To the King_. She was talking to her soulmate.

Harry came to visit her the second and final morning of her convalescence. Anne was twitchy, squirmy and generally uncomfortable stretched out on her bed with nothing to do but read. She’d planned on going riding with Jane and George before the hunt, Madge having begged off on account of a similar maladie to what Anne had. 

Percy knocked thrice, loud enough to throw Anne out of her doze. She sat up, yawned and pulled her blankets up to her chin.

“Come it!” She croaked out, once and twice before the door opened slightly. Harry stepped in nervously. He was dressed in a yellow doublet with the puffy sleeves the King had taken to wearing. The color suited him as well as the cloth of silver he’d had weaved into the red fabric of one of his favorite doublets. Anne particularly hated that one’s low collar. It ended at the base of his throat rather than going up higher as had been the fashion in France and, apparently, only gone out in England just as Anne was arriving. 

_Was_ going out.

The King still wore high collared ones but quite enough of those seemed to have been tailored down from his chin to around the half de son cou- _of his neck._

Percy was wearing his chain around his neck, likely having just come from Wolsey’s offices or somewhere equally chaotic and important. Anne sat up in bed, sniffed and squinted at him. He shut the door and hurried to her.

“How are you my love?” Percy asked and gave her a kiss on the head.

“Tired,” Anne grunted out. She reached up, cupped his cheek and gave him a smile. 

“My poor love,” He said. “Would that I could take your pain away.”

 _The King probably wishes it more so than you,_ Anne grimaced. She all but felt the color drain from her face at the thought. She kissed his cheek gently. 

“I would not wish it on you for all the glory in the world.” Anne said. It was true. 

She wouldn’t.

Perhaps on Mary and certainly on Norfolk. 

God, she hoped he caught the venecian disease and it rotted his nose down until she could see straight through the hole in his face and into his brains.

“How’ve you been?” She asked. 

“I beat your brother at a horse race,” He told her. 

“My congratulations.” Anne replied. 

“You lot ride like centaurs,” Harry said. “Perhaps you’ll linger behind for me tomorrow.”

“I doubt I’ll be back on a horse until we go back to Hampton,” Anne whined. 

“You might ride with me,” Harry suggested. Anne raised one amused eyebrow and shook her head.

“What a scandal we would cause,” She mused. Harry looked at her coldly for a moment before he spoke.

“You’re not pregnant are you?” He asked her.

“ _What?_ ” Anne spat and sat straight up in bed.

“I don’t believe one word of it but I’ve heard what’s said too many times not to ask,” Harry pleaded. Anne openly glowered at him for a moment and watched him recoil. 

The King had called her cruel yet she found she’d been too kind to this man.

“Then why speak it?” She snapped. “No, I am not carrying a child.”

“They say you bring him to your rooms at night,” Harry told her.

“Do you believe it?” Anne asked.

“No,” Harry assured her. “I fear what might become of us. I am worried about you, Anne.”

“I know,” Anne coughed out. Harry got up immediately and brought her the water and the glass she kept on the vanity table. He poured it for her and handed it over. Anne sipped it, throat clenching as she choked it down. 

“Leave this to me.” She told Harry.

“I’d like to help you if I may,” He responded. “I hope one day that I might be your husband and, thus, your closest, most constant confidant.”

Anne’s lips curled up into a cold smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La Chronique française de Londres is my translation of The French Chronicle of London which was a nightmare to research. It'll play a bigger part in the next to chapter but to summarize it covers 1259-1343 but includes the first record of the BS story of Eleanor of Aquitaine murdering Rosamund Clifford. Yes, I had to JSTOR this and, yes, the author is unknown. 
> 
> I hadn't really planned on Henry and Anne discussing the neck touching from Chap. 3 but it allowed my to call Henry out for his inappropriate behavior and highlighted Anne's increasing attraction to him so I left it.  
> Henry would, at least in my mind, not be *that* comfortable dicussing children, especially when Anne approached it the way she did.  
> He did actually capture Thérouanne in the Battle of the Spurs but then gave it back (for a ransom) because it was too expensive to keep.  
> Jane Parker became Lady Rochford when George Boleyn, her husband was granted the title of Viscount Rochford in 1529. after his father was made Earl of Wiltshire/Ormond. According to Wikipedia it was a "junior title" so like the eldest son of the Duke of Norfolk gets to be the Earl of Surrey, I think?  
> I've given it to Jane's family because there is absolutely no way in hell Henry is giving the Boleyns (other than Anne) ANYTHING after this disaster.  
> Malleus refers to the Malleus Maleficarum which was first published in 1486/1487. Let me assure you as someone who owns a copy it is fascinating, disgusting and horrifying. I've got no idea if Henry ever had one but well....Good Luck Anne, that's all I'll say.
> 
> Edit: Nantes was actually the capital of Brittany and Anne of Brittany grew up there/ruled there for a time.


	14. August 1512: Given blood like Galatea was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, Mistress Boleyn,” The Queen said. “I believe that that’s the first time I’ve heard you apologize for something.”
> 
> “Then I am glad to say that I have never needed to beg forgiveness in your ‘ighness’ presence.” Anne replied and curtsied, cautious of her falcon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE:  
> I'm not quite sure what to tag the scene with Mary and Anne but Anne is more of a bully than she's been before in this fic and makes comments that are really inappropriate to say to a sibling. Intimidation might be a decent description or perhaps pschological abuse but I think that it's not that extreme though I may be wrong. 
> 
> I just want to make sure I don't trigger anyone. 
> 
> This is the section 
> 
> "Anne picked the medicine up off her......burning in Hell."

There was a knock on Anne’s door at dawn. She was lying in bed, staring at the wall, listening to Mary breathe. Her sister took little, whistling breaths that were so loud that Anne had to think that Mary was trying to make up for how quiet she was during the day. Mary stirred and grunted as Anne got up and grabbed a robe. It was one she hadn’t worn in months but still kept beside her bed out of habit. Perhaps she ought to start again when she was well enough to go out in her nightly wanderings. It was better than being trapped in the darkness of her room, dreaming up some giant _thing_ crawling through the crack in her door and then standing up, revealing itself to be a man. 

Anne yawned and dragged herself out from beneath the covers, pulling a strand of yellow hair from her mouth. The floor was cold, making her hop on her blistered foot and grab a set of stilettos from beside her bed. She detested wearing them without socks. 

Anne hadn’t even heard of a cobbler who could make the shoes in England. There were only ten or so in France from what she knew; the two best imported from Italy at the behest of sa reine- _her queen-_ to help with her limp. Anne owned a total of eight pairs. Cinq achetaient et payaient pay- _bought and paid for-_ by Anne de la Bretagne. She’d got the other three with her winnings from cards.

Anne opened the door with a bang, making sure to slam it against the wall to show her displeasure. 

Will Compton stood there, bleary eyed with his brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Anne felt her heart drop into her stomach. 

_The King wants to see you,_ She imagined those words coming out of his mouth. 

_Can I get dressed?_

The reply would be _no, now._

Hal; Henry; _cet homme_ ; the bloody King of England would be waiting for her, having guessed at who she was. 

_Oh, Jesus, no,_ Anne thought, face paling as she looked at the Groom of the Stool. Will grinned somewhat awkwardly.

“Good morning,” Anne said, for lack of anything else to do. 

_Would I ever have told him?_ Anne wondered. Somehow she doubted it. Perhaps she would’ve let this play out until he left for his war and came back with his taste for the exotic thoroughly satisfied. Perhaps, then, she could be with Percy in peace.

“Morning,” Compton said. He pulled a pouch from his belt.

“His highness wanted me to give this to you.” Compton told her. Anne eyed the little leather bag warily but took and opened it. 

Inside was a small glass bottle and a little poultice.

“Oh,” Anne said. “I...um...hold on a moment.”

Anne bolted back into the room, once again slamming the door.

 _He doesn’t know,_ Anne thought. _He doesn’t bloody know._ _  
_ _Thank God._

“Anne?” Mary grunted from the bed. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Go back to sleep,” Anne snapped and lit a candle. She rummaged through the desk, grabbing a quill, an ink bottle and a scrap of parchment. 

“Wha’ are you doing?” Mary asked.

“Writing a letter.” Anne replied.

_Your highness,_

_Thank you for your generosity. I find myself surprised at such kindness and do hope to offer my gratitude in person as soon as I have properly recovered._

Anne hoped he would not take that to mean she’d be _thanking him_ but, then again, she truly needed to stop being alone with him.

_I would bid you tell me how you do as soon as you are able._

_Your humble servant,_

Not truly. Anne knew very well that she wasn’t a humble woman by any means. 

_Anna Bolaine_

She tossed a bit of dust over the ink and heated her wax. 

“Anne?” Mary asked from the bed. “What _is_ going on?”

“The King’s sent medicine,” Anne held up the little pouch. “Your more likely to need it than I.”

“I’d just go to mother,” Mary replied. Anne watched her little, golden haired sister snuggle back into their pillow. She ground the dripping red wax into the paper, sealing the letter with what could be described as venom.

“Could you braid your hair?” Anne asked. “It gets everywhere.”

“So does yours,” Mary replied. 

“I wear mine pulled back,” Anne snapped. “And clean my brush.”

“God,” Mary said. “Were that I anywhere else.”

“You and me both,” Anne replied. She stomped back to the door, making sure her heels clacked loudly enough to induce deafness as she went. Will was waiting uncomfortably for her outside the door. 

She handed him the letter.

“Merci,” She said. “Will I see you for cards tonight?”

“The King’s somewhat ill,” He replied. “I’ll be attending his highness for the evening.”

 _Of course the prat is,_ Anne thought. She wondered how he was weathering it. 

“Give him my best,” Anne said. She handed the letter to him. Then she spoke again, on a foolish, unthinking impulse. “I’m certain his highness will recover soon.”

It came out as nothing more than a kind wish rather than some half concealed statement of cold fact. When he ached she ached; when he bled she felt as if she’d been cut; when he was struck she fell; when she was wed he’d feel the pain of her maidenhead; when she went to the birthing bed he would scream in agony right alongside her.

Anne wondered who had screamed along with the Queen when she had borne her babes. 

The first one had been born dead and the second had not lived to see half a year. 

_Cet homme_ had held when she cried and she had done the same for him. Anne’s own father had done it for her mother. Le roi Louis had done it for Anne de la Brittagne. There was a better chance than not that Henry Percy would do the same for her and she for him.

Or James Butler.

Or _cet homme_. 

The fact that she was beginning to think of him as the potential father of her children was concerning. 

_He’ll kill Percy if we wed and he discovers the truth,_ Anne thought and her blood went cold. _No, that would be foolish. Behead a man to steal his wife?_

Henry would do it. The way he’d followed her and Percy spoke of the entitlement possessed only by the most powerful of men with the good fortune to have been blessed with a handsome face.

Son Duc, Louis had had a touch of it as well but he was a calmer man than the King, more given to silence, more given to the study of people and to statecraft than Hal. Anne wondered what would have happened if she had been his soulmate. She would have been overjoyed to have ade such a discovery; to see herself gain position, power, wealth, a dedicated lover; faithful friend and good husband in one roll of the dice. 

Anne picked the medicine up off her and Mary’s desk and drained half of it. It wasn’t the foulest thing she’d tasted in the past week, having developed a taste in Dragon’s Breath Beer. Her little sister was still awake, blinking stupidly over at Anne. She looked like some virgin bride laid out on her wedding night, waiting for a drunken husband to come and bloody her cunt. Mary’s hair hung around in her face, untangled and just tousled enough that even a monk’s flesh would be stirred by the sight. Perhaps that was why her parents had seen fit to wed the girl off before Anne had even returned home from France. 

“Do you want some?” Anne asked. “It’s good if you’ve been gagging.”

“I haven’t…” Mary began and then her pale forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“Anne’s that’s disgusting!” Mary squealed. 

“What?” Anne cackled. “ _Oh_. It’s no wonder that Carey wants rid of you.”

“He’s welcome to do it,” Mary told her and tucked herself under the blankets, clearly wanting to go back to sleep. 

“To throw you out to the kennels?” Anne asked. She swayed up to the bed as if she was walking toward Percy, kicked off her shoes and crawled in next to Mary. She lay on top of the covers with her front pressed to Mary’s back and her cheek resting on her sister’s hair. Anne put her arm around Mary. 

_Who let you be a wife?_ Anne thought. _I can hear your little rabbit heart. Pitter patter. Pitter patter. So terrified, aren’t you?_

“Do you remember?” Anne asked “Maryanne? How I used to read to you?”

“Let me sleep, Anne,” Mary said. Anne put her mouth to sister’s ear. 

“Always so tired, little sister,” Anne teased. “How exhausted.”

Mary elbowed her in the ribs, hard enough to wind Anne and send her rolling away. 

“ _Bitch_ ,” Anne spat.

“I’d rather sleep in a kennel than in here with you!” Mary replied. If Anne had not been too busy trying to catch her breath she would have laughed. 

_I should have let Henry fuck you,_ Anne thought. _If only to see your face when you were thrown out into the cold. That would have been worth burning in Hell._

Bessie Blount started riding with Anne, which meant that Madge started riding with Bessie and Bessie’s brothers started riding with George. It was surreal. Anne had taken, over the past few days, to sticking to the back of this makeshift herd and simply watching the lot of them. 

And the King. 

The Blounts rode with the King far too often for Anne’s taste.

William and George Blount had the exact same eyes and mouth as their sister and the same colored beards. They had been at court since before the old King died, naked in his bath, choking on blood. Anne had heard that his own mother had had to lift him out, dress him and hide his body until Henry could be summoned to court. 

The Blounts were rather polite men. Anne could imagine liking them, even if she wouldn’t be able to justify that.

“I’m surprised you never learned in France, my lady,” William Blount had commented the first time he’d helped Anne get her falcon into flight.

“The Queen didn’t much like birds,” Anne had explained. The rather tall man had shrugged his broad shoulders at that. A gesture that reminded her of his sister, who had been ahead of them, trailing after Charles Brandon. 

Anne did not have to imagine nor justify the fact that she hated hawking as much as her borrowed falcon _clearly_ hated her. The bird seemed to think that Anne was its prey. 

In the first hour out on the first hunt at Greenwich, Anne found herself in the company of Blount, the Queen, Jane, Compton, Mistress De Cardonas and _cet homme_. 

Anne’s bird was flopping all around on her arm so she was holding it as far away from her body as she could. She was, yet again, lingering at the back of the party, next to her worried friends, and Bessie Blount, whose own borrowed hawk was sitting steadily on her forearm. 

“Are you going to hunt?” Jane asked, playing with a strand of her hair. 

“I’m trying,” Anne whined, looking at the group ahead of them. The Queen was standing right next to Blount, their glossy hair in matching red nets, glinting in the sun. The King was striding ahead with Compton, waving his arm at the falconer prying a bird out of his hawk's claws. 

“Braying ass,” Anne hissed. Jane followed Anne’s gaze before pinching the bridge of her nose and scowling. “I think they let him win.”

“Her highness does at least.” Jane replied. “Be nice.”

Anne’s bird made another lung for freedom and flapped its wings wildly. She had half a mind to let the thing into the air and to tell the falconer that it was his problem now. _Blount’s_ problem.

 _I’m not sure I could afford to replace him,_ Anne thought. Frankly, she didn’t want to spend the money on buying William Blount a new one. The hunting party was moving ahead of them quickly but Bessie stopped and called back to them. 

“Are you coming?” Blount asked, gesturing to the Queen. “We best not dally.” 

“Oui,” Anne replied with a massive grin. “His highness always seems to be in perpetual movement.” 

When Anne looked over at Jane she saw a completely befuddled expression on her friend’s face. 

“That he is,” Blount acknowledged and stood, stubbornly, waiting for the two other women to catch up with her. They did slowly. Anne watched how the blonde held her bird close to her body with her free hand hovering to its side, as if she was worried it would tip over and shatter on the ground. 

Anne glared at her unimpressed, malevolent hawk. 

It couldn’t glare back at her as it’s eyes were covered by it’s leather hood. 

When Anne looked up she saw _cet homme_ resting his hand on Catalina D’Aragona’s shoulder. They were smiling gently at each other.

As they got closer, Hal bent and kissed her forehead. 

“If you want, Princess Summertime,” Anne heard him say. He was tugging at his gloves.

“Have your seams torn?” Catherine said, taking his hand into hers. 

“Yes,” He replied. “Here on the wrist.”

Anne could see the jewels on his gloves from where she was standing. Heavy green gems surrounded by diamonds but probably not emeralds given how likely those were to chip. She wondered if he knew that such extravagance was the cause of his fraying seams. 

Perhaps no one had bothered to teach him anything of practicality. Outside of war, of course, though she could imagine him in armor embossed with a golden English lion and a crowned, bejeweled helmet atop his head charging against the French. 

“Will!” The King- _le putain-_ glanced over at them briefly. “Can you send for a picnic?” 

“Highness,” Will bowed and turned. Anne looked at how he was smiling uncomfortably and felt the urge to slap herself across the forehead. He looked between her and Bessie nervously.

She’d have to ask if this was normally how he treated his mistresses. 

“I’ll come with you,” Anne said, rolling her eyes. She curtsied, bird still on her arm, and saw the Queen’s eyes resting passively on Bessie. 

_Twat,_ Anne mentally shouted at Hal. 

“Bessie?” She called sweetly, seeking to guide the blonde away from the Spaniard. “Could you help me with my bird?”

Let the Queen think _cet homme_ had the two of them warming his bed at the same time. Let the distress keep her awake at night, staring into the darkness, sick with worry.

Anne honestly wondered if they’d all fit together. She was, physically, la plus petite des trois- _the smallest of the three._ Blount was rather tall and the King was, well, a thin waisted, large handed, long legged giant. He’d probably take most of the bed, hogging covers and snoring.

Anne could imagine he snored. Probably rather loudly.

She wondered if he slept naked. 

_Non,_ Anne thought. _Trop c’est trop_ \- _enough is enough. I swear I would join a convent to get away from this._

No, she wouldn’t. She’d miss Madge, Jane, Harry and the lively madness of court. 

_Poor woman,_ Anne thought. _To be wedded to a man who loves like he does._

Anne’s hawk promptly tried to escape her once again, this time catching her across the eye with it’s wing. Anne jumped and swung her arm, destabilising the poor thing and making it shriek. She managed to brace the hawk quickly, swearing under her breath in panic. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Anne murmured to her bird.

“You know, Mistress Boleyn,” The Queen said. “I believe that that’s the first time I’ve heard you apologize for something.”

“Then I am glad to say that I have never needed to beg forgiveness in your ‘ighness’ presence.” Anne replied and curtsied, cautious of her falcon.

“Have you even gone hawking before?” The Queen replied and walked over to her. 

“No,” Anne admitted. C’est un vrai- _it was a false-_ admittance. “And I’d not like to again.”

She’d started hawking a week ago. 

_Yet all too true_ , Anne thought. She never wanted to see another falcon again in her life.

“Very well,” Catalina D’Aragona replied and gently took her hand. She put her hand beneath Anne’s elbow, steadying her. “Hold still if you can.”

The Queen carefully extracted Anne’s wrist from the falcon’s awful claws and lifted the bird into the air.

“Whose is this?” She asked. 

“Bessie’s,” Anne informed her. 

“Have you not thought to teach Mistress Boleyn how to handle her bird?” The Queen asked. Bessie muttered an apology and Anne couldn’t help but smile to herself. 

“Now, Mistress Boleyn,” Catalina d’Aragona began. “You are holding your arm too far from your body.”

 _Bloody fuck,_ Anne thought.

When she returned to Greenwich half an hour later, she knew much more about hawking then she’d ever wanted too. Anne swore that Catalina D’Aragona had had a falcon on her perch by her cradle.

“Well,” Jane said that evening. “That was unpleasant.”

Anne grunted into her Spanish wine. A fitting drink from the sound of things. The King was on the dance floor with Blount, whipping her around in the air. He hadn’t taken Anne up on her offer to dance the volta. 

She wasn’t much in the mood for dancing anyways. She was meeting Percy later, not to lie in bed and do everything but consummate their love but to sit at his desk and talk. Anne was still not quite sure what she ought to say. She didn’t quite want to think about it.

He’d all but proposed. 

Well, not quite. It was a declaration of _intent_ , not a betrothal nor a wedding but one very large step closer to both. 

“That is the nature of royalty,” Anne replied to her friend. Jane humphed. 

“Of nobility,” Jane asked. 

“Hmmmm?” Anne replied. 

“Isn’t your Uncle bedding some blonde laundress?” Jane asked.

“I wouldn’t _want_ to know,” Anne told her annoyance of a friend. 

“It’s what George told me,” Jane shrugged. 

“I don’t want to know about that either.” Anne said. Jane stared at her for a moment but Anne held her gaze, thoroughly unimpressed. 

“I would hope _not_ ,” Jane replied. Anne popped a bit of venison into her mouth. “Why on earth would you think I’d tell you?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Anne asks. It was a weak defense, she knew that rather well, but it was an unexpected question.

“Because he’s your brother,” Jane replied. Her eyes were moons in her face and her pretty full pink mouth was parted. 

“And?” Anne chuckled. “You should see the filth my uncle allows to be said about me at his table.”

“That doesn’t make it….” Jane said. “Anne. What does he say?” 

Anne took another drink of her wine, eyes creeping, of their own accord, across the hall to where the King was moving amongst his courtiers. The embroidery of cloth of silver on his light blue doublet shimmered in the torch light.

Anne set down her wine and sighed.

“Il aime à savoir que je fais avec cet homme- _he likes to know what I do with the King_ ,” Anne replied and tilted her head toward Hal. 

“And you tell him?” Jane replied. 

“Je mentais- _I lie_ ,” Anne said. “Satané- _bloody_ ‘Owar’.”

The King was weaving closer and closer, even so casually to the untrained eye. Anne’s were not untrained. He was watching her, never turning so his back was her and Jane. He kept his head turned so he could keep them just within his sight. 

In the evening light, his skin glowed like it was made of pearl. 

“Women in France,” Anne said mildly. “Put powders of lead and saffron on their skin to look as if they’ve been turned to marble.”

“Yes?” Jane asked, well used to Anne’s odd turns of phrases. 

“Yet, here, in England,” Anne continued. “Even the most active of noblemen look as if they were birthed by an oyster.”

Anne turned her black eyes onto the King, finding him even closer than he was before. 

“And,” Anne said. “Some are so bloodless as to resemble the Roman faces cut out of that white stone. Seeing all, unchanged, uncaring.”

“George a dit que tu le déteste- _George told me you hate him,_ ” Jane said. 

“Nous ne pouvons pas réellement avoir horreur de notre familles- _we can never truly hate our families,_ ” Anne replied. 

“You’ve never met my brother and father,” Jane snorted. The King had stopped creeping closer. He was speaking to a man who Anne thought she recognized to be Francis Bryan. It was the eyepatch. “They quarrel as if they’re a fox and a hound.”

“So one grabs the back of the other one’s neck with his teeth and snaps his spine?” Anne asked. Jane shook her head, opened her mouth to respond and then shut it. 

Anne turned her head to look over her shoulder, knowing full well that it wasn’t _cet homme_. Henry Percy was standing there, a happy grin on his face. Anne smiled gently and inclined her head. 

“My lord,” She said. Her eyes started to slide away from him before she forcibly held them in place. 

“My darling,” Percy replied. “Might I have the pleasure of a dance?” 

_Don’t call me that,_ Anne thought. She clenched her jaw to keep her head from turning. 

This, this _pull;_ this draw between her and the King could typically be ignored. Anne could talk, flirt, eat, drink and dance with only a glance or two toward him most days but she supposed it was not most days. 

She offered her hand to Percy and let him make a show of guiding her out of her chair, not wanting to speak. They passed the King to take their place on the dancefloor and Anne’s stomach started to roll. 

She smiled her most practiced, most charming smile at son amant _-her lover_. 

“An Almain?” Anne asked.

“I would test myself against your skill, my lady,” Percy said and bowed to her. Anne curtsied and felt _something_ press down on the front of her left shoulder as if she was a child being maneuvered by an adult. 

_Cet homme_ was to her left. 

She and Percy stood side by side and she took his hand as the slow music began. They bent the knee first to the empty dias and then to each other. Anne’s heart started to pound in her belly but she kept her eyes facing forward. 

_Forward, back, small kick_ , Anne knew the steps like she knew Harry’s slim hips and angular shoulders. God save her, she knew them better than the lines on her own palms. Anne’s chest was tight, dress somehow shrinking to constrict her lungs. 

_I’m going to be sick,_ She thought. Henry’s pearl skin glimmered behind her eyes, promising an end to the suffocating press on her lungs and heart. 

Anne smiled broadly, baring her teeth to Harry as she curtsied to him and he bowed to her. Then she spun around slowly as the Almain demanded of its dancers. 

_He_ was staring at her, hazel eyes fixed like he was a hawk and she was a rabbit creeping through the brush. He was marble, pulled from the Earth, hewn into the face of an angel and given blood like Galatea was. Anne felt relief wash over her, belly settling and kirtle loosening enough that she could breath.

Anne completed her turn so she was facing her Harry yet and curtsied. 

_I’m going to scream,_ Anne thought as she gagged on nothing but air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter with no Henry/Anne interaction in a long time!!! WOOHOOO!
> 
> The Almain was an actual Tudor era dance that goes somewhat similarly to how I've described it. 
> 
> Catherine of Aragon did actually introduce falconry into England when she came to wed Arthur. She and Henry (and Bessie Blount and Jane Seymour apparently and our lovely Anne of course) were avid hunters. I will gladly admit I have no idea when/if hawking became popular in the French court but Anne not liking the things most commonly associated with her is just too funny to me. 
> 
> Dragon's Breath was apparently an actual beer that had a pretty high alcohol percentage back in the day. I can't find the source rn so don't qoute me. 
> 
> Henry is wearing the blue doublet with the bows from the Spanish Princess. Ruairí looked very pale in it in Episode 12 so I thought the pearl comparaison was appropriate. 
> 
> I know I've neglected the "soulmate hyper-awareness" in the last couple chapters but I've been playing around with how being around your soulmate would work in universe so I figured I'd bring it back now. It's basically a self soothing stim for Anne in this chapter. 
> 
> Comments are my caffeine so let me know what you think! 
> 
> EDIT: This chapter was powered by the Spotify playlist @boleynqueens/@ofcouragehault made for this fic so I just wanted to say Thank You because it's both awesome and inspiring!
> 
> EDIT 2: I did not see that this has gotten over 5,000 hits so THANK YOU EVERYONE!
> 
> EDIT 3: Galatea is from a Greek myth where she is initially a sculpture created by Pygmalion and she's brought to life by Aphrodite when he falls in love with her. Henry may or may not think of Anne like that and voice those thoughts at some point in the future. He also may or may not regret that descision.


	15. August 1512: To Have a Henry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are more than worthy of his interest,” Harry said. “Though I want to blacken his eye for it.”
> 
> That would be the same as blackening my eye, Anne thought and began to chew a nail. Why do men always swear themselves to violence in the name of love? 

When Percy and Anne snuck off to his room, she felt someone’s eyes on the back of her bare neck but when she looked over her shoulder, she saw only the shadows and the flickers of torches. 

There was no pull this way or that. 

Henry had not followed her. 

She shouldn’t have expected him to. He had left the party early with his Queen on his arm. Their smiles and pink cheeks had let everyone know just where they were going. They were certainly creatures of passion; her soulmate and his Spanish Catherine. Their hair was kissed by fire and their teeth sharp and white. They burned everything in their path, one with so called kindness and the other with carelessness.

Or perhaps that was what they were just doing to Bessie.

The poor girl had looked as crestfallen as Anne had ever see her and had stayed huddled up to Madge for the rest of the night. 

When Harry and she got into his rooms he sat down on the bed and tossed his jacket off. Anne pulled the chair from his desk over and sat down across from him. 

“Do you intend to marry me?” She started off. It was best to be blunt if she was to stake her future on him. She was also exhausted, more so than she had been since she had crossed the Channel during her journey from France. 

“Yes,” Percy replied. He swallowed as he did so. “Would you have me?”

“Yes,” Anne said and smiled as gently as she could. “If I can.”

“If the king will let you,” Percy said. They’d make Henry a wife stealer if he ever found out Anne’s secret. He’d already coveted her sister and Anne would become a nun if he hadn’t bedded another man’s wife at least once in his life. If he wasn’t King he’d probably have half a dozen married men braying for his blood. For some reason, she didn’t think her brother in law would have been among them. William Carey probably would have just had Mary shut up in a convent after she’d horned him. If he ever discovered the affair, of course, but, then again, Mary couldn’t tell a lie to save her life. She might not have had the spine to take a lover if not for Norfolk and her parents’ pressure. 

“And ‘ow, pray tell, would he stop me?” Anne replied. “I have made it clear that you have a greater claim on me than he does.”

“And yet he persists,” Percy said, voice rising. He sounded petulant. Anne leveled him with a look. 

“That is the game of love, Harry,” She replied. “You play it do you not? Everyone dances; devotes to one another with poems and false promises and,  _ zen _ , if zey are lucky zey find zemselves sharing a devotion like ours.”

“So you’ll pledge yourself to me?” Percy asked. 

_ No,  _ Anne thought. 

“Yes,” Anne said. “But not yet. Not until it is safe to risk standing before a priest for our betrothal.” 

“You have it right,” He replied and then began to fidget. “You’ve always had it right. Ever since I met you.”

Anne didn’t say anything. She watched him, sitting comfortably in silence while he squirmed.

“Do you remember how, when we were twelve and you came to Calais, how you said dancing was the way to trap a soul?” Henry asked. Anne did not remember. “You’ve….mastered it. I see you with the King and I think you’ve got to be a witch for how you’ve enchanted him.”

She bit her tongue to keep a blunt retort from her lips.

_ I had no need to trap his soul,  _ Anne thought.  _ It has been in my keeping since I drew my first breath and I will not part with it until my death, though it is no choice of mine. _

Even in a moment when it would be in best interests to bare herself to son amant- _ her lover _ -that was the truest of intimacies. 

Âme soeurs- _ soulmates- _ were the favorite of lazy poets, uninspired preachers and tittering girls with eyes blinded by the smiles of knights yet Anne found that  _ knowing  _ Henry made all the blustering seem cruel. She was attuned to him as if she was a lute and God had strung her cords just for him. 

Anne wondered what Mary thought of soulmates. If she was in Anne’s place, her sister would have run to the King and thrown herself at his feet, wailing that he was her love and she was his destiny.

Anne’s jaw tightened with rage at the pretty scene. 

_ Elle n’est pas s’âme soeur-she is not his soulmate,  _ Anne reminded herself.  _ Mary is a wife and the kind of beautiful little fool he wants on his arm but she is not  _ that  _ to him.  _

“And?” Anne asked slowly. “You’ve never been snare hunting with me, have you?”

He shook his head. 

“I was taught,” She told him. “To tie my squirrel snares loose to avoid catching birds. When the King realises that he doesn’t much like the taste of the bait, he’ll fly away as quickly as he came.” 

“If the King hadn’t marked you as his, I’d have to battle half of the men in England for one of your smiles,” Harry spat, clearly not having heard a word she said. Anne swallowed and forced herself to relax. She crossed her ankles and interlaced her fingers.

“It is a blessing in  _ disguise _ ,” Anne snapped. He looked up at her more sharply than she ever had seen before. She leaned toward him, widening her eyes and holding his gaze. 

“I’ve never told you why he noticed me, have I?” Anne lied. “I wrote him a letter during the spring and my brother smuggled it to him. My Uncle tried to put my sister in the Queen’s place by making her the mother of Henry’s son and pitting her against her highness. It bordered on treason and I wanted no part in it.”

Well,  _ partially  _ lied. 

“Oh,” Percy replied and then scoffed. He shook his head and rubbed his nose and laughed again.

“What?” Anne asked, getting the distinct impression he was laughing at her. 

“Why does he want you if he knows you come from a house of such depravity?” Henry giggled. 

_ I may be the better liar,  _ Anne thought, anger draining away to leave only a deep weariness behind.  _ But Norfolk has reached greater heights in that. _

Anne didn’t respond for a moment, choosing her words carefully. 

_ Hal began his reign with the last of the Yorkists trying to bury a knife in his heart. Every man, woman and child must love him lest they be traitors.  _ She thought.  _ He wants love but not that kind. He likes to hunt his women as much as he likes to hunt deer. Here I am, Harry, offering loyalty when it's against my own self interest yet demanding no reward. How could he not want me?  _

“He wanted to reward me for it,” Anne replied. “I refused his offer but, unfortunately, zat piqued his interest.”

“You are more than worthy of his interest,” Harry said. “Though I want to blacken his eye for it.”

_ That would be the same as blackening my eye,  _ Anne thought and began to chew a nail.  _ Why do men always swear themselves to violence in the name of love? _

“And the rest of the knight, lords and gentlemen you claim would be your rivals if not for him?” Anne asked. 

“I think I can find comfort in the fact you are here with me and not with them,” Harry replied. “I have loved you the longest out of any man in this court.”

“You are the only man that loves me, Harry,” Anne assured him. “Truly loves me.”

She found herself growing exasperated with this word play. They did not live in the court of King Arthur, though had the sweat not come to Wales they might have. The idea that love conquered all was something only children could truly believe. 

_ Or Kings,  _ Anne thought.  _ Spoiled little Princes grown into coddled, cosseted men. _

Yet, Hal and her were not like young lovers who, by their nature, only shared the sweetest of songs. They were made of the same fire as Adam and Eve. Anne always wondered why the priests never spoke of those two. She supposed the devotion that drove Adam to take the apple of knowledge from his âme soeur wasn’t to be applauded in their eyes.

She, personally, thought it was more romantic than most chivalric tales. 

“And the only one I love in return.” Anne said as the muscles of her belly began to ache. Anne sat back in her chair. 

_ And you should take even more comfort in that,  _ Anne thought.  _ I hated my own soulmate for nearly a decade.  _

Anne didn’t want to think about what that said about her yet she found she couldn’t stop. She loved the man across from her but it was not the love she had shared with the  Duc  de Longueville or for sa reigne. 

They had met as children, several times and then  _ she _ had forgotten about him, as she forgot most of the children that had come and gone during her jeunesse _ -youth _ , never lingering for longer than their parents did. She had met him again as if he was a stranger after they had grown into bodies ready for pleasure and hearts eager for companionship. 

Even if she did not enjoy Harry’s touch or his laugh, Anne would have taken him for title, his wealth and his fascination with her. 

His  _ adoration  _ of her. 

The mutual affection was just an added blessing.

“Why?” Harry asked her. “Why do you love me?”

“Your laugh, your kindness, your manners,” Anne said easily. Her stomach tightened again and her leg cramped.“The way you work at everything that you set your mind to. How you kiss me. How you touch me when we lie together. The fact you are no wordsmith yet your heart is so very eloquent. I love you and I adore you and I am blessed to have your love and adoration in return.”

She reached over, took his hand in hers and kissed his knuckles gently. The muscles of her stomach cried out at the movement. 

_ Is he having his damn wife against a wall? _ Anne wondered

“You are  _ my _ Henry,” Anne continued. “And I would have no other.”

That was a lie and she knew it. 

Anne had been born alongside a Henry and God knew how many hours she had spent as a child dreaming of having him beside her as her playmate; her schoolmate; her constant; her confidant; her own reflection painted onto the flesh of a boy. 

She had been born as a vessel for the soul of another Henry just as he housed hers. She had felt his ever bump, break and bruise. 

She could bloody feel him  _ fucking  _ his wife. 

“And you my Anne,” Henry said. “Were I poet you would be my muse. Were a knight I would face a thousand dangers to have you.”

_ Why do you love me?  _ Anne wondered.  _ It doesn’t matter.  _

The ache in the muscles of her stomach grew deeper and Anne decided that Henry had to be on top of his wife rather than having her against a wall. His arms and lower back would surely ache more if he was holding her up. 

“I would not have you face a single trouble on my behalf,” Anne said. “But I fear we will face many togezzer in the coming years.”

_ How long would he have to be fucking her to get this sore?  _ Anne wondered. She could see him. He would braced on one forearm, with his other hand gripping the headboard, and his hair a wild mess. It would be darkened from the sweat that had been built up over the hour or so they’d been going at it in some way or another. Perhaps it would have soaked his back so that Catherine could barely get a proper grip on him. 

Anne imagined how his muscles would move. She could see how they would tense and relax, especially his broad, defined shoulders. Perhaps there was a splattering of moles on his back. Perhaps he had dimples on the base of his spine. He’d dart down to kiss her mouth and her neck and whisper filth in her ear before getting back to rutting.

_ My summertime,  _ She had heard him call Catherine. The twat probably called her that in bed too. 

_ Little creeper,  _ She thought. It was a strange nickname but one she could imagine him breathing into her ear as he undid her kirtle enough to grope her breasts. 

“My father is due to come to court in September,” Percy told her. “After the King’s declared war. He’s already got father marshalling troops.”

“And likely a dozen other nobles as well,” Anne inferred. 

“I think it was the Queen’s doing,” Percy said. “She was all but reared in a war camp, wasn’t she?”

_ I wouldn’t discount Henry so easily,  _ Anne thought.  _ But she very well may have suggested it. _

Anne shrugged. 

She wondered if  _ cet homme  _ was loud or quiet. Somehow she doubted he was anything in between. Perhaps he was quiet and then gave a shout when he finished. 

Anne wondered what it would be like to have him inside of her. 

_ A man inside of her,  _ She corrected herself.  _ Not that man. _

She refused to think of him. 

Her cunt clenched and she shifted in her seat. 

“A pity he won’t come later,” Anne said. “After the King ‘as forgotten me and the gossip has moved onto something else.”

“I don’t think he’d be able to believe a single word once he’s met you,” Harry replied. He sounded hopeful and Anne knew he had to be lying to himself if he believed that.

“Doubtful,” Anne said. “He’ll hear I’m pregnant with Henry’s child. He’ll hear he took me in the woods like a beast. He’ll hear my sister and I share his bed at the same time.”

Catalina D’Aragona was as beautiful as Gwenievere or Helen of Troy, no one could deny that. Anne had to wonder if Henry had wanted to play Lancelot or Paris when she had first arrived in England. 

Anne felt her back prickle as if it she’d scratched it and knew her second guess as to how they were fucking was true. 

She could imagine that he’d have the Queen’s legs high around his ribs. Her toes would be pointed and she’d be calling his name. 

Anne imagined him in an old tunic, leading his Queen to some corner or other to slide his hand up her skirts and make her purr and he played with her folds. He had large hands, lightly calloused, warm and probably perfect for fingering a woman. 

She hadn’t given Harry that liberty, unwilling to even slightly damage her maidenhead in the slightest, but she wanted to feel  _ cet homme _ ’s fingers rubbing at her walls. Anne imagined  Henry would get on his knees when they shared the burst of pain to use his tongue to tease her into relaxing enough to accept his fingers properly into her body. He’d probably flick his tongue over her center and then circle it around her folds until she was bucking her hips into his mouth. 

“And I’ll ensure he knows they’re all lies,” Harry said. Anne crossed her ankles, pressing her thighs together and realised she was wet. She shook herself out of her fantasies. She could find some little nook or unlocked closet and rub herself off.

_ Or I’ll go to bed with Harr _ y, Anne thought.  _ Why take my pleasure alone when I’ve got someone I can share it with? _

“How?” Anne replied. “How are we going to do that?”

If the Earl of Northumberland discovered their affair  _ now  _ there would be trouble. An incredible amount of trouble. Once the rumors about the King had died down there was a chance he would approve the match beforehand. If not, he could just approve it after they were wedded and bedded but  _ that _ couldn’t be done  _ now.  _ In a year’s time, perhaps. 

_ Fuck,  _ Anne thought as her thigh twinged.  _ He surely knew how to pleasure his wife after three years of marriage if he knew how to pleasure a woman at all but what on earth was he doing? _

“Might your father support us in this endeavor?” Percy asked. Anne smiled widely. That was probably the smartest thing she’d ever heard out of his mouth. 

“He already does,” Anne replied.

She’d seen  _ cet homme’s  _ cheeks bright red from the hunt and she could guess that he would have the same coloring. She imagined his mouth hanging open and his eyes glazed over as he raced towards the height of pleasure. 

The image she conjured was some strange hybrid of amusing and beautiful. 

_ Enough,  _ Anne thought as she felt the Queen’s nails rake down her back once again.  _ Can you finish already you bloody twat? _

“And my mother as well,” Anne continued. “Though it might be all for not.”

“Why?” Percy asked. 

“They’re to go to Austria once the summer is over,” Anne told him. Her leg twinged. “The date hasn’t been set but my father’s been assigned to the embassy.” 

She felt her cunt start to throb as she thought of Henry’s chest meeting his wife’s as he took a break from his hard rhythm to kiss her until neither could breathe. Catherine would either cling onto him, starved for affection or push him off of her and demand he get back to fucking her. 

Perhaps she would grab his hips and tilt hers up to get him deeper. 

Anne knew she would.

She wondered if her legs were long enough to get the back of her knee even with his shoulder 

“We’ll need to hurry then,” Harry said. 

“We ought to wait till the war is over,” Anne told him. “The King will be leaving and everything will be forgotten by the time he returns victorious.”

Henry grimaced. 

_ He asked me to come with him to France,  _ Anne refrained from saying.  _ He promised to take me back to Paris. _

“I feel I have waited too long for you,” Harry said.

_ What would you do if you found me in Catherine’s place?  _ Anne thought. She would sink her nails into his arse to keep him in her longer and after he’d spilled in her she’d climb onto his face and ride him till she came. Anne felt her face flush at the thought. She would rock her hips back and forth so she could feel his tongue flicking all over her. Then she’d sink her fingers into his sweat soaked curls as he sealed his mouth over the sweet spot in her folds. 

_ Fucking arse,  _ Anne thought. 

“We were children for so long, Harry,” Anne replied. “And unable to wed on zat account. We are happy as we are now and I would not risk that by rushing ahead.”

Harry nodded. She thought he looked quite too dejected so she leaned over, put her hand on his cheek and kissed him. 

“Yet I find myself in great need of a wife,” Harry said into her lips. 

Anne thought Percy probably already knew her body better than  _ cet homme  _ ever would.

“And I in as great a need of a husband,” Anne replied. He reached out and pull her to her feet and then closer, so that she was standing between his legs.

A greater need, in fact, but for this catch, she could wait. 

Bessie Blount wore a new pink dress that next day and Anne wondered which of his women was the wife and which was the mistress. Perhaps he wasn’t giving Blount some strange kind of apology for Catherine still being available to him but he’d probably ordered it for her before the Queen’s lack of pregnancy was revealed. Anne would have given her an English neckline rather than a French one. The English necklines were lower-when the French ones were properly cut that was-but showed less of the shoulders. They were square cut rather than having the round curve of the French style and, when combined with the right kirtle, could lift rather than flatten the bust. 

Bessie’s collar was, somehow, done properly. 

Anne would have to ask Henry which seamstress he’d used for that one.

She was waiting for her yellow dress to come back from the one Jane had recommended.

Anne’s thigh twinged. When she looked over at the King he was standing up. She wondered if the Queen would tell her exactly what he had enjoyed doing so much last night that he’d pulled a muscle doing it.

Or maybe she’d have to ask Bessie. 

She also wondered just how many of his former injuries came from such antics.

Bessie and Madge rode side by side, looking as if they were maids in a tapestry. The first had hair like the sun and the second had hair like the moon. Madge’s hair had been lightened by the summer sun to the point it was pale like snow. Anne felt her stomach swoop at the thought. 

Anne was not an insecure woman by nature but rather one that had been chastised for arrogance since she was girl. Anne était une connaisseuse de la beauté- _ she was a connoisseur of beauty.  _ She had watched the woman men watched in France and learned to copy how they danced and then how they walked and how they smiled. As she got older, she had learned to walk as herself and smile as herself and be more desirable than any of those women before. 

Blount sat straight in her saddle as if she had a board tied to her back and held her reines too tightly. Madge bounced more than swayed with her horse.

Anne thought someone ought to paint them or weave them into an everlasting picture to be hung on a wall long after they were dead. Her sister would fit well between them, with her hair flying out from beneath her hat. Mary hadn’t bound it back properly. 

It would be a tangled mess before the day was done. 

Like  _ cet homme’s  _ was.

She wondered what he would do if she told him she was finished with him and wished to be left in peace. He wouldn’t kill Percy for that but he might if he realised who she was. 

Perhaps she was paranoid but she dared not order  _ cet homme _ away from her. Harry would be the father of her children and Hal would scream in agony when she bore them.

“Oi!” Bessie called over her shoulder, making Anne jump. “Anne!”

“What?” 

“We’re heading up to the front,” Bessie told her. “Come with us?”

_ How strange, _ Anne observed.  _ How you seem to choose my company even when you have others with you. _

“Last one there waters the horses,” Madge said and took off laughing. Anne spurred Aphrodite forward with a smile on her face and Blount whipped her stallion across the flank to get him moving. 

Anne rode hard enough to feel a wind on her cheeks, overtaking Bessie in a heartbeat and Madge in a few moments. She cantered through the trees, weaving this way, barely dodging a bolder by a stream and that with the keen skill of a rider well attuned to her horse. She kept Aphrodite reined tight on the turn but let her loose when they found a clearing. Anne barrolled past Brandon, Compton, her brother, the Queen, her Harry and Jane Rochford. 

From the corner of her eye she saw a horse pulling up, neck and neck with her. She weaved toward the little road quickly, wanting to lose whoever was following her. 

Anne sucked air in through her teeth and felt the familiar pull to turn her head. She spurred her horse on harder. It was easier, so much easier than it had been before but it was still there. 

When she hit the road she looked back to see the King’s green hat flying off his head.  _ Cet homme _ pulled his horse to a stop and Anne laughed as she continued on her way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well......this was original going to be 10,000 words but nope. Hopefully the next chapter will be up more quickly as I've already got part of it written or I might end up adding more to this one once I finish the next 4/5 scenes. 
> 
> Also....just, poor Henry Percy...
> 
> I've probably overwritten this chapter to the nth degree so, as always, please let me know what you think!


	16. August 1512: Ifs and Quois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How many great men have found their âme soeur? Anne thought. Then she looked at Henry. The sunlight one his cheeks made them seem ruddy. Ruddier than they appeared in candle light.
> 
> What greatness do you have within you? Anne wondered. What brilliance? Your wife’s parents had proved their merit before they’d even met. Charlemagne was a soldier and an Emperor before Fastrada was even born. What were you? Who are you to be blessed as he was? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well....here's this one. 
> 
> A note: there's références to stuff that has been added onto Chapter 2 and 4.
> 
> EDIT: I have already added more to the main scene because my brain really really hates me.

Henry found her by a little brook, where Compton told her he would be. It was bubbling away cheerily, still plump with the late spring rain. She’d left Aphrodite in the stables to be watered by Madge, changed into a fresh dress, done up her hair, grabbed a spare blanket and walked to the spot. It took nearly a half an hour to get there but it allowed her to stretch her sore legs. 

A mixture of her own aching muscles and  _ cet homme’s _ maritally acquired injuries were the cause of them, she supposed.

The forest was quiet, all manner of creatures driven down into their burrows or up into the tops of trees by the noise of the hunt earlier in the day. She laid her blanket down beneath a  marronnier- _ chestnut tree _ , by a boulder  and sat down, looking over the brook with her sharp, dark eyes. She’d told Madge where she was and to come out with Jane or George or both if she wasn’t back within the hour before sunset. 

There was something  _ filthy  _ about meeting out in the forest. Anne supposed that  _ cet homme _ thought of himself as a knight of the Round Table who’d stumbled upon a highborn lady in desperate need of aid.

_ The Queen’s his Maid Marian afterall,  _ Anne thought.  _ Why should I not be his Didrane? Or his Lynette? _

Lord knew her tongue was sharp enough for the latter. 

That would make Mary his Lyonesse and that made Anne bite back a grim laugh. 

_ How easy it would have been if she had been his âme soeur?  _ She wondered.  _ It all would be so very simple. Mary would have told Norfolk and been brought right to Hal if she hadn’t thrown herself on him when she realised.  _

Anne would have had to stand witness as he took her to the altar and then as they were put to bed and blessed by a priest. 

Probably Chaplin Wolsey.

That would have been painful. It would have made her chest ache in jealousy. 

Mary would not have only been wed first but wed twice first and so blessed as to find her âme soeur. 

And be made a Queen. 

It was strange to imagine a world where her marriage to Harry would be all but assured. It was unpleasant to imagine Mary being crowned at Westminster, her golden hair falling in waves down her golden dress. Perhaps Anne would have been allowed to design it if she groveled enough. It was a horrid thought.

The thought of losing Henry’s affection to her sister was not exactly comfortable either but Anne didn’t want to think about it. It was a waste of her time and one that darkened her mood.

The simple fact was that she wouldn’t care about him one bit if God had his soul into his sister’s keeping. 

She would probably distrust him more than she already did. 

_ They would’ve been happy _ , Anne thought.  _ Until he tore that blindfold she so loves off with both hands and pissed on it.  _

Anne knew on instinct Henry was coming from her right before she heard his horse but the pull to look at him was weaker than it had been earlier.

_ It comes and goes,  _ Anne thought.  _ A pity I can’t find some pattern. _

_ Yet _ .

She wondered what he would do if she didn’t get up.

Anne got slowly to her feet, knees cracking and curtsied. He swung off his horse, green cape flying behind him. It matched his hat and his doublet. Anne was grateful she’d worn her creme and brown riding dress instead of the green one she’d been considering. It would not do for them to match like they were partners in a pageant.

Or a knight and his lady love at a tourney. 

Anne had never much liked  _ La Mort de la roi Arthur.  _

That was a lie.

She had liked it until she grew old enough to become disgusted with Guinevere and Lancelot. 

_ Such fools,  _ Anne thought.  _ To throw away their power, their homes, their safety and their lives for a tumble in the sheets. _

It was the  joining of two souls according to Ettionette, her one time bedmate, who tittered over her copy of the stories. Anne hadn’t known what to make of it.

She had preferred Tristan and Iseult. They had not been bound together by the will of God but by a potion or a choice depending on the tale. 

They were not fools but ever cautious and practical. 

Mark had also been less sympathetic than Arthur to her juvenile mind. 

As she grew older she’d seen plainly that they were both the kind of beasts that could only survive in human cloaks as kings. Anything else and they would’ve been butchered either by the headman or hung by the noose. 

“Anne,” Henry said, tying him horse up. He had her book tucked under his arm. “How do you do?”

“Well,” Anne replied, standing straight. “And yourself?”

He was wearing a new set of gloves, these ones with  pearls sewn thick  on the end. Anne fought the urge to smack her forehead. Pearls were more suited for seams or collars, anyways. 

“Have you recovered?” He asked. 

“Yes,” Anne said. “Why?”

His gaze turned wary and Anne cocked her head to the side. 

“Has your highness recovered yourself?” She asked, knowing the only illness he had had was an echo of hers. 

“Yes,” Henry replied. “I fear you gave me your throat maladie.”

“Or you gave it to me,” Anne shrugged. He squirmed slightly and tugged at the fingers of his gloves. 

“Maybe we both just stumbled into the same  miasma, ” Henry suggested. 

“Or you found a way to have me laid up in bed for a day,” Anne replied and then grinned coquettishly at him. “Was that what you intended, your highness? If so, I must commend you on your enginuity.”

His lips parted and he looked from side to side, stunned silent before his face broke out into a bright smile. Anne laughed, keeping her black eyes fixed on him. 

“I jest, Hal,” Anne said. “I jest.”

He shook his head and pulled his left hand free of his glove. 

“I’m glad you’ve recovered,” He told her as he walked over. “If only so that I can have your company again.” 

“And I you,” Anne replied. “Thank you for the medicine. It worked wonders.”

“It was no trouble,” Henry said. “I’d had half a mind to send one of my physicians to you.”

“Very generous,” Anne mused. “But I thank you for considering my reputation.”

“Ah,” Henry replied. “I’ve paid for the care of half this court by now.”

“I didn’t know that,” Anne said, watching him pull off his right glove. “Why?”

“It’s best if we are all in good health,” Hal said. 

“What do you mean?” Anne pushed. He gestured behind her.

“I see you brought your own cloak,” He said. 

“Blanket,” Anne corrected. 

“A pity I forgot a picnic,” Henry replied. He went past her and sat down on her blanket with a grimace. She felt the strain of his thigh muscles and how the clasp of his cloak pressed into his throat when he sat on it. Anne didn’t move a muscle, studying him and how the summer light that slithered through the thick branches of the  marronnier- _ chestnut tree _ - illuminated his face. They caught on the orange curls that hung out from underneath his cap and made them look like molten gold.

“What?” He asked, tossing his cap on the ground. Anne swallowed the lump in her throat.

_ Why did you have to fuck your wife like that? What on God’s Good Earth is wrong with me?  _ Anne thought.  _ I am not a silly girl, blinded by a handsome man’s smile. _

She never had been, not since she was thirteen. 

“Are you growing your hair out?” Anne asked, for a lack of anything else to say.

“Not really,” Henry replied. “Why?”

She walked over and sat herself gracefully down next to him. Her legs were tucked to the side, her back was straight and her hands clasped in her lap. 

“Compton is,” Anne said. “Perhaps you two-and Brandon-might have made some pact for the war.”

“They’ll be earning their spurs when we ride against the French,” Henry replied. “So will I, I suppose. Properly earn them.”

“You’ve done enough to deserve them twice over,” Anne said. “How many tournées ‘ave you rode in four? Five?”

“Three,” He said. Anne hummed and looked out over the little stream in front of them. The roaming sun had lengthened the shadows of the trees until they darkened swaths of the water. Anne imagined the water would be as cold as snow on her skin. 

Henry’s horse was shitting where he was tied thirty odd paces away from them. She couldn’t see a guard in sight. 

“I’ve only led three pageants,” Anne replied. “That does not mean I haven’t earned the title of graceful.”

“Your humility never fails to inspire me, little creeper,” Henry cut her off.

“So too have you earned ze title of knight,” Anne continued. 

“I had a knighthood before I was even old enough to know what it meant,” Henry said. “Truly meant.”

“And what is zat?” Anne asked. “Protect the women and the weak? Reign victorious in the joust? Defend England, her King and your comrades?”

Henry shook his head. 

“Or is knighthood a way of serving God?” Anne continued, remembering what he had told her.

“What do you mean?” He replied.

“Europe has had her holy warriors since the last pagans were converted,” Anne replied. “Surely God shows special favor to those who do battle in his name?”

“Ours is to be a holy war, isn’t it, Anne?” Henry yawned. “The Pope excommunicated Louis and my  _ loving  _ brother-in-law.”

“I ‘adn’t heard,” Anne replied stiffly. 

“The news only came in this morning,” He said. She wondered if he’d declare war sooner than planned. 

“Then you shall have his blessing to march,” Anne replied. “More so than you would if you were simply asserting your right to ze French crown.”

He had no right to the damned thing and no way to get it from the little Anne knew of war. Still, she was an  _ Englishwoman  _ and they said such things. 

“It seems to me that his blessings come in the strangest forms,” Henry said. He laid back on his forearms and crossed his ankles, looking out at the stream. 

His horse was now eating a bit of weed or grass. 

“Wolsey says that He tests those He favors the most,” Henry continued. “But rewards them ten times over when they are victorious.”

“Perhaps,” Anne replied neutrally. 

_ Why would Wolsey be saying that?  _ She wondered.

“Then He takes it away at his pleasure,” Henry said. “Doesn’t He?”

“Would it truly be a reward then?” Anne responded. “Or a punishment for failure?”

Henry grimaced and Anne remembered his dead baby. 

“Take Guinevere and Lancelot,” Anne said much too quickly. “They were both sinners brought together to test one another’s virtue. They failed and, so, were punished.”

“They were soulmates,” Henry replied. “If anything the collapse of Avalon was her father’s punishment for keeping them apart.”

“It was Arthur’s punishment for bedding his sister,” Anne scoffed. 

“What stories have you been reading?” Henry laughed. “I’ve never heard anything like that.”

“Mayhaps I’ll loan another of my books to you,” Anne replied. “What ones have you been reading?”

“In my copy  Leodegrance ,” Henry said. “Knew God had bound them together but still ordered her wedding to Arthur.”

“Who did not give her up,” Anne said. 

“That was not his duty,” Henry replied. Then he rolled to the side and grabbed her book. 

“Speaking of which,” He said. There was a root pressing into his side. “I’ve found the oddest little tale in here. Quite misplaced.”

“What is it?”

He flipped the book open to the  second page and pointed toward the bottom. The script was hastily written and the ink lighter than the rest. 

“This story about Henry the Second and the Clifford girl,”  _ Cet homme  _ said. Anne felt her stomach drop in panic. 

_ He’ll kill Harry,  _ She thought.  _ He’ll have me and kill Harry for daring to touch me. _

“It’s out of period by about a hundred years,” The king continued. It was indeed but Anne didn’t say anything. Anne leaned toward him and forced herself to relax. 

“Yes,” Anne said. 

“What do you make of it?” He asked. 

_ Fuck, _ Anne thought.

“What part?” Anne replied. “The horror of being tortured or trapped in a maze?”

“You would say that,” Henry said, sounding rather amused. Anne’s heart started to hammer in her chest and she began to pick a nail. She shrugged and looked away from him. 

“Where are your guards?” She asked,  finally noticing  what wasn’t there.

“Waiting by the path,” Henry told her. “Why?”

“It’s too quiet,” She told him. The brook was still bubbling away and she could hear birds in the trees. It was impressive how quickly the forest could repair itself after a hunt. She began to chew her nail. 

“You don’t like it do you?” The King said. 

“I am capable of being quiet,” Anne sniffed and looked down her nose at the man stretched out beside her. Her nose was starting to itch. 

“I know,” Henry hummed. “That doesn’t mean you like it.”

“We’ve sat togezzer, reading, or whatnot,” Anne spluttered as the King leaned back and smiled smugly. “I ride in silence half ze time!”

“Yes,”  _ Cet homme _ replied. “But that’s when you’re doing something. Can you simply sit with yourself?”

“Can  _ you _ ?” Anne shot back. That shut him up. He wrinkled his nose and thought about it for a moment.  _ Cet homme  _ scooted around, so that the root pressing into ribs was finally gone. He flopped down on his back so he was looking up into the branches of the tree. Anne wondered if she should offer to let him use her lap as a pillow. 

They sat in silence for a moment and Anne resumed chewing a fingernail. She used to grow her nails long enough that it was hard to grasp a needle, which was a somewhat acceptable excuse for her inability to sew absolutely anything. At least, in her mind.

Now, she unfortunately had to simply try to avoid sewing. She doubted most of the Queen’s ladies minded her muttered cursing, Madge’s cackles and Jane’s sighs of exasperation from the corner they’d monopolized in the Queen’s sitting room. 

“It’s a sad story,” Henry told her. “Rosamund Clifford and her Henry.” 

Anne nodded and scooted backwards so she was leaning against the tree behind them. 

“I might need to show this to Sir Tom- _ Thomas More _ -when we return to London,” Henry continued. “Or after I’ve won back Aquitaine.”

_ Not Paris?  _ Anne thought. 

“Why?” Anne asked. 

“We’re having a bit of a theological debate,” He said and interlaced his fingers atop his belly. “Well, us and Erasmus and who knows who else at  Oxford or in Rome about soulmates.”

“I haven’t heard of anything,” Anne replied, biting off a scab and making her finger bleed. She dropped her hands back in her lap and twisted her skirt between them.

“Are you interested in theology?” He asked. Anne raised an eyebrow. 

“Are you so passionate about the teachings of Christ that you think your word can be held equal with that of the Pope?” Anne replied. “Your _ ‘ighness _ .” 

“Oh, the Pope hasn’t said a word,” Henry said. “Yet.”

“‘As he written a few?” Anne asked and cracked her neck. 

“No,” Henry replied. “He’s not done that either. It’s more academic at this point anyways.”

“And what exactly is being debated?” Anne said. “Why do we get tezzered to each other? Or how God chooses who we’re tethered to?”

“No,” Henry said. “Well, yes, but, now, we’ve begun to question their place within the church, of course.”

“And how does fair Rosamund fit into all this?” Anne asked. He smiled at her rather gently, as if she was little better than a girl.

“Tom-Thomas More….”

“I know who he is,” Anne said.

“Yes,” Henry replied. “Well, Tom’s searching for examples of relations between such people.”

“I wonder what Henry the Second would zink of being named  _ such people _ ?” Anne replied.

“Oh,” Henry chuckled. “The great conqueror is rolling in his grave as we speak, but it’s no matter; I am king now, not he.”

Anne snorted and shook her head.

“And what has your Tom found?” Anne asked. 

“I’m not quite sure,” Henry said and propped himself up on his forearms. One of them was on a root. 

_ Why can’t he just sit up?  _ Anne wondered and looked out over the brook. The young  ifs- _ yew trees _ - lining the brook were rustling in a breeze. 

“Has he not told you anything?” Anne replied. 

“His project is in the earliest stages,” Henry said. “Though I believe it will have a fascinating impact.”

“How so?” Anne asked and twisted her hands in her skirt. 

“Soulmates are the  most evident way  God shows himself to us,” Henry said. “Yet we suffer for it.”

Anne certainly knew that rather well. 

“A painful gift,” Anne replied. She personally thought that was unsurprising. God could be a harsh overlord when it suited Him; even to the most devout christian. “ As is stigmata.”

“You think they’re similar?” Henry asked. He sat up properly and leaned back against the tree. He fixed his hazel eyes on her but she didn’t feel cold. They made her want to puff up with pride, like a hunting dog returning to it’s master with a rabbit between it’s jaws. 

Anne looked out at the brook yet again. She wondered how deep the stream was. It seemed to be sunk deep into the dirt. Perhaps it flowed across bedrock rather than clay. The roots of the growing yew trees would one day cut through it to reach the rushing water. 

“‘Ow could zey not be?” Anne asked. “Stigmata is a mark of holiness.”

A mark of holiness that made Anne grateful to be a sinner. 

“Then what are soulmates?” The King replied and scratched his jaw. He had stubble growing in, probably from a day of not shaving.

“What does Thomas More think they are?” Anne asked. 

_ We,  _ She thought.  _ Nous sommes les âmes soeurs-we are soulmates. _

“The Greeks have argued that Lilith was the one Adam was tied to,” He said. “So God had to make Eve of his own flesh for them to lie together.”

“And they are heretics,” Anne snorted. “Or so we name them.” 

“Yes, yes they are,” Henry replied. “And Tom wishes to mount a campaign of words against them.”

“Against priests a continent away?” Anne smirked at him. Hal scowled at her. “Quite a slog of a war wouldn’t you say?” 

“It is a good starting point,” Henry said, scowling. “To study the theology of such a great matter.”

Anne felt her temper flare. 

_ Such matters?  _ She almost said.  _ Is your highness aware that we are such matters? That I am such a great matter? _

“And how does theology intertwine with our story of Fair Rosamund and her king?” Anne snapped. 

“It’s curious that he didn’t wed her,”  _ Cet homme  _ replied. “Strange even by our standards but that was a different time.”

“How so?” Anne asked, fury bubbling in her belly. “They were not heathens.”

_ I am a fool,  _ She thought.  _ I am a fucking fool.  _

“England had the greatest empire since Charlemagne,” Henry replied. “Who had his Fastrada of course.”

“I thought God had bound him to the last one,” Anne sniffed. “Or was that her?”

“No,” Henry said. “I think she was the third.”

“He begot children after her zen,” Anne replied. 

“Perhaps she was the fourth,” Hal shrugged. “Though he only had her for ten years.”

“Plenty long,” Anne grunted. She twisted her fingers into her skirt. “She was said to be cruel.”

Anne felt the sudden urge to laugh bitterly.

_ How many great men have found their âme soeur? _ Anne thought. Then she looked at Henry. The sunlight one his cheeks made them seem ruddy. Ruddier than they appeared in candle light.

_ What greatness do you have within you? _ Anne wondered.  _ What brilliance? Your wife’s parents had proved their merit before they’d even met. Charlemagne was a soldier and an Emperor before Fastrada was even born. What were you? Who are you to be blessed as he was?  _

“Yes,” Henry replied. “Though he stood behind her as Claudius likely did with his Messalina.”

“They were not soulmates,” Anne said, raising one eyebrow. 

God, she  _ loathed _ that word. 

“No,” Henry shrugged. “But she could not have reigned such terror without him propping her up.”

“Yet that did not win her affection,” Anne replied, looking out at the brook yet again. The shadows of the ifs- _ yew trees _ -were turning the water black. 

“I thought you cared little for the matters of the heart?” Henry teased. Anne glared at him but he held her gaze easily. 

“He wedded her for love,” Anne replied simply. 

“Many of the emperors wedded for love,”  _ Cet homme  _ said. “Augustus, Marcus Aurelius, Elagabalus or so they say.”

_ As did you _ , Anne thought.  _ Apparently.  _

“And how many found their soulmates?” Anne asked, frustration mixing with the fury in her belly. She had not found such matters very compelling as a girl yet she would happily sit and argue over them if the opportunity presented itself. It was interesting, afterall.

Hal’s brow knit as he thought for a moment.

“Nero,” She began, ticking off her fingers. “Septimius Severus; Commodus,  _ allegedly _ ; Trajan; Lucius, Marcus Aurelius’ co-emperor, unless such tales about his match with Aurelius’ daughter were propaganda; one of the warlords during the year of the six emperors…”

“Warlords?” Henry protested.

“They were all butchered like dogs in a baiting pit,” Anne replied. “Hal.”

“They were also proclaimed and anointed,”  _ Cet homme  _ said. 

“By armies,” Anne sniffed.

He grunted and rolled his shoulders back. 

“You’re forgetting Justinian,” He said. “And his whore Queen, Theodora.”

“He was not Roman,” Anne replied. “But merely Byzantian. A people who were a mockery of their ancestors even at their height.”

“I have read several positions that would disagree with you,” Henry said. 

“Your highness must share them,” Anne twisted her skirt between her hands again. She cracked her neck. She knew she was forgetting one emperor. 

“I would be happy to,” Henry said. “If my little creeper would care to step into my parlor.”

Anne wracked her brains for the name. It was one of the earlier ones. A Julio-Claudian.

_ An unholy, incestuos, terror,  _ She remembered. 

“Caligula,” She barked. “He had one as well. Some silk merchant’s daughter.”

“Hmmm,” Henry replied. “I don’t believe that. No King would wed such a woman.”

“I am certain of it,” Anne said. If her father had not caught her Howard mother, she would be better known as the granddaughter of some fortune hunting mercer and his self-made son. 

Perhaps that would have been for the best. 

“How could God have rewarded such a tyrant, I wonder,” Henry responded.

“Henry the Second was said to be cruel,” Anne replied. “Yet you’ve named him great.”

“Henry the Second was a king who deserved the title of emperor,” Henry replied. “With few flaws.”

“He died with his children in open rebellion against him and his wife cursing his name,” Anne snorted. “A great man, yes. But a happy one?  _ No. _ ”

“Would you rather be happy or a king?” Henry asked.

“I am a woman,” Anne replied. “I  _ cannot  _ be a King.”

“Would you rather be happy or a  _ queen _ ?” He asked, looking rather exasperated.

“Who would you have me marry, your ‘ighness?” Anne replied. “I know of no unwed monarch whom you could offer me to.”

Henry shoved his hand through his hair, making his curls even wilder.

“Could you answer the question?” He demanded. 

“I’d rather be happy,” Anne said. That was a lie or perhaps a false kind of admission. 

She would rather have both happiness and influence. 

_ As the countess of Northumberland _ , Anne thought as she looked at the King.  _ Not a Queen. They could wield such great power or none at all, especially foreign ones.  _

“It’s what we all desire to some extent, isn’t it?” Anne asked.

“Yes,” Henry replied, smiling at her. Anne grinned back. 

_ What would you do with me if I was your wife?  _ Anne wondered. She knew what Harry would do but not  _ cet homme _ . 

“I wonder if he was happy with his  _ Rose of the World _ ?” Henry asked. “Or if Caligula was happy with his mercer’s girl?”

_ Rose du monde _ , Anne mentally corrected.  _ Henry the Second was a Frenchman by blood and spoke his mother tongue throughout his life. Rosamund would have been his Rose du monde. _

“Rosamund died before her Henry,” Anne replied. “And Caligula before his last empress.”

“Perhaps,” Henry said. “Perhaps her loss made him cruel or mad.”

“When did he start battling with the Young King, his son?” Anne asked. 

“I don’t remember,” Henry replied. “She was dead before that though.”

“Would it help your Sir Tom if he went mad after he lost her?” Anne asked, more an impulse than curiosity. 

“I think he’d prefer to examine any contract made between them,” Henry replied. “I’ve never heard of one but given what happened to Becket, he wasn’t likely to  _ get _ an annulment to wed her.”

Anne felt her belly twist with such strong displeasure that it resembled intestinal discomfort. 

“Perhaps he didn’t want a divorce,” She said, forcing herself to smile at him. “It was through his wife that he built his empire.”

“Perhaps,” Henry replied. “Tom’s likely to compare the theological opinions with various legal matters in this case.”

“Is that what he normally does?” Anne asked. 

“No,” Henry shook his head. “He deliberates on how we ought to be more moral people.”

“Then why the change?” It came out sharper than she’d intended. 

If she had been having this conversation a year ago; six months ago; five months ago she wouldn’t have cared much if at all. Anne likely would have forgotten it within a week.

_ But this fool of a man had to take a lance to the face,  _ Anne thought. 

“Having a soulmate is such a strange thing,” Henry replied and shook his head. 

“Mayhaps,” Anne said, knowing very well how improper this would become. She made a point of shrugging and looking uninterested. 

Henry pointedly looked away from her and she felt a flash of panic. She’d hated him, held her tongue when she discovered his identity and kept her secret every moment she spent beside him. 

Anne studied son âme soeur- _ her soulmate _ -as he looked over the woods. His horse was sniffing the ground for more morsels to eat. He looked grim as if something heavy lay on his shoulders.

_ Une âme sœur,  _ Anne thought.  _ Is a burden.  _

Anne looked out over the brook to see the shadows of the yew branches creeping across to grasp the other side of the bank.

_ There,  _ Anne thought bleakly.  _ Is a large difference between having a debate when the matter affects you personally and when it doesn’t. _

She raised a hand to chew a nail but ended up snatching her cap off her head and playing with it to stop herself. 

Anne genuinely wished that none of this mattered. Henry would just be a King. She would have Percy beside her, overlooking the little brook and her looming trees. 

No she wouldn’t. 

She couldn’t imagine him, sitting in silence, here, in Henry’s place.

“Your hair is as black as a raven,” Henry said. 

“Thank you,” Anne replied flatly. “If it was winter your hair would resemble this  chestnut tree.”

She nodded her head back toward the one they were sitting against.

“Is that the French word for chestnut?” Henry asked. 

“Yes,” Anne said. Henry ruffled his hair yet again and Anne fought the urge to push a spare curl behind his ear. 

“Yours hasn’t lightened at all,” Henry observed. He sounded surprised. 

“It never has nor will it,” Anne replied with a shrug. “It’s too dark for that.”

She leaned back against the tree and continued to play with her hat. It obscured her face in shadow, cooling her skin. 

“It glints blue,” Henry said and reached out to put two fingers beneath her chin. Anne turned her head to look at him but he left them there. “In the dark or in candlelight.”

“Yes,” Anne replied, smiling softly. “I suppose it does.”

“Why don’t you wear it loose?” Henry asked. 

“I’ve worn it loose,” Anne said, mildly indignant. 

“No you haven’t,” Henry replied. “It’s always done up in braids or nets or what have you.”

“Zat does not mean part of it wasn’t loose,” Anne replied. She raised both eyebrows and looked down her nose as best she could at a man that was a full head taller than her even when he was sitting. 

“Properly loose,” He said. Anne pursed her lips and twisted her cap in her hands again.

She had had to keep it bound away from her face and up off her neck as she grew older. If she did not, her acne would flare up horribly, creeping down her neck, covering her jawline and forehead. 

“I don’t like it,” Anne replied. “It’s uncomfortable.”

“More uncomfortable than having pins scratching your scalp all day long?” Henry replied. Anne cocked her head, shifted her body so she was facing him and pulled her knees to her chest. She rested her head on them and a pin promptly dug into the side of her head.

“What would you know of that?” Anne replied. “Has your hair ever been long enough for a tie?”

“No,” Henry said and shook his head. He smiled gently at her and reached out to take her hand. He simply held it and rubbed his thumb over the knuckle of her middle finger. 

“Even when you were a boy?” Anne asked. She remembered the long, chin length style that had been popular in France when she was a girl. Her father had worn it as had her little brother even though he was barely out of skirts. 

“My brother did,” Hal said. He shifted around so he was facing her and slid his hand down her palm till his fingers were on the underbelly of her wrist.

“What was he like?” Anne asked and pulled her hand back. Henry’s face fell.

_ As pretty as you are spoiled,  _ Anne thought.

She reached back out, grasped his hand and entwined their fingers.

“He was even taller than I am now,” Henry told her, smiling like it was Yule. “He was a pole, a foot and three inches when he died but skinny as a branch but quiet. He preferred reading to sparring and horses made him sneeze. And dogs, he loved his dogs more than anything.”

“He sounds rather fetching,” Anne commented. 

_ A bit like Harry,  _ Anne thought.  _ If much taller. _

Anne was of the opinion that she would’ve liked him. Perhaps more so than  _ cet homme _ . 

“He looked like our mother,” Henry replied. “I used to say that if we got him into a dress you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

“You must have been jealous,” Anne teased. Henry looked at her sharply. “To have a kinsman more beautiful than you.”

Henry’s face went as red as his hair but he gave her a hard look. 

“Why do you call me that?” He asked. 

“Call you what?” Anne replied.

“ _ Anna _ ,” He said, pursing his lips. She laughed at him. 

“Because you’re as pretty as a woman,” Anne replied. “Do you take umbrage with that, Hal?”

Henry looked away and swallowed. Anne thought his eyes were wet. She wondered how often he was genuinely complimented.

“What does that make you?” He said, somewhat harshly. Then he squeezed her hand and smiled. Anne shrugged, feeling barely bothered. She found she was more offended by comparisons to other women, though such things encouraged her to study them when the anger passed.

_ To steal a bit of their beauty for myself,  _ Anne had once told  sa duchesse when Anne de la Bretagne had been told that Anne had been teased for her nose. She was fourteen at the time. 

_ How will you do that?  _ The queen had asked. 

_ Some women are beautiful because of more than their faces,  _ Anne had shrugged.  _ I get to be one of those. _

_ Get to?  _ Anne de la Bretagne had replied. 

_ Faces fade,  _ Anne had said.  _ Golden hair turns grey with time. Grace, wit, comportement; they never disappear. _ __

“Anne Boleyn,” Anne replied. Henry grimaced. 

“I meant how does Percy compliment you,” He said. It wasn’t an apology nor did it contain a hint of one.

“He says very little about my looks,” Anne replied. “I’d rather be thought of as intelligent than fair anyways.”

“Has he called you fair?”  _ Cet homme _ asked softly. She shrugged and turned his hand over to look at his palm. “It’s a poor descriptor for you.”

Anne raised an eyebrow.

“You are prepossessing,” Henry said. “Sublime, handsome. A naiad. The very definition of unrestrained womanhood….”

“Are you insulting or complimenting me?” Anne asked, a laugh bubbling up in her throat. She uncurled herself and scooted toward him, until her knee was pressed against his thigh. 

“You take that as an insult?” Henry asked, utterly unrepentantly. She poked him on the chest playfully. 

“Most women would,” Anne said. He opened his mouth. “But, no, I don’t.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Henry replied. He reached out and cupped her jaw. Anne’s breath hitched as he slid his thumb down to rest on her throat. 

“But you take being called beautiful as an insult,” Anne said. 

“I’m not sure I can, little creeper,” He replied. “Not when it comes from you.”

_ Cet homme  _ leaned toward her, intent on kissing her. Anne put her hand on his chest in warning. His face fell even as she leaned forward and pressed three open mouthed kisses onto his cheek. He shuddered under her touch so Anne pressed one where the back of his chin met his neck. 

Henry gasped and Anne pulled away. 

“Anna,” He said as his other hand came up to cup her face. She looked him over quickly, seeing that his gloves were tucked into the right side of his belt.

“You may not kiss me,” She replied softly and leaned forward so that their foreheads were touching. 

“But you may kiss me?”  _ Cet homme  _ scoffed. She reached down and grasped one of the gloves by a fingertip.

“May I not kiss a companion’s cheek?” Anne asked as she pulled it from his belt. She put her left hand on his chest and pushed him lightly. He slumped back easily, like he was a curtain over a hidden doorway, waiting to be pushed open. Anne curled her hand around his glove, trying to push it up her sleeve. 

Anne smiled down at him, slow and syrupy and nearly predatory. Heat pooled between her legs faster than since she’d been sat on the Duc de Longueville’s lap with his mouth on her neck. Anne slid her hand up his chest to cup his cheek and leaned over him. 

_ Oh, you’d like having a woman atop you,  _ Anne thought.  _ If you were to bed her in the bushes. _

She had to wonder if that daft rumor did hold some truth. 

Henry reached up, cupping the back of her head and pulling her down to him. Anne went easily but put her mouth to his forehead rather than his lips. She stuck her nose in his hair and fought to keep from giggling. 

She felt stupid, as if she’d drunk a bottle of wine on an empty stomach. 

Henry’s left hand went to her lower back, large, film and steady. Anne put her right hand down on the ground by his head and felt the glove slip down her sleeve but not out of it. 

His nose brushed the center of her collarbone and Anne smiled. He lifted his head up the ground and Anne almost rolled her eyes. 

“Tell me Hal,” She began as his mouth found the side of her neck. 

Even though his kisses were soft, Anne felt like she’d been punched, air flying out of her lungs. She had the sudden awful thought of straddling his hips, grinding down on him until they were both dripping in sweat and mad for it. Anne let out a soft gasp that sounded like a scream to her ears in the quiet forest air. 

She couldn’t hear birds or squirrels up the trees. Even the wind seemed to have fallen silent, patiently watching them, eager for a show. 

“So this,” He said as reached the muscle of her shoulder. “Is what it takes to shut you up.”

Anne grabbed and pulled his hair hard enough that she almost yelped alongside him. She sat back, snarling down at her âme soeur. He looked back at her, mouth hanging open and eyes soft with shock. 

Anne pushed his head down to the top of her breasts. 

“I am not ze loose tongued fool,” She hissed down at him. “Not the one burning for  _ zis _ . How many times have you thought of me beneath your sheets?”

“How many times have you wanted to crawl under them?” Henry shot back, nuzzling at her bosom. 

_ The second to last time I was with Harry, _ She thought. 

Anne scratched her nails through the back of his hair. She felt them on her own head. His scalp would be sore from how hard she’d yanked his curls.

_ Cet sale gosse-this brat _ -put his other hand on her waist and pulled her down so her hip hit his belly. Anne panted, trying to banish the feeling of pain and her weight on him. He didn’t seem to mind. 

Anne had to curl her hand over her wrist to keep the glove from falling out. 

“Well,” The King asked. “How many times?”

“You zink I can’t keep myself warm enough alone?” Anne shot back. 

“No,” Henry replied simply, eyes alight with mirth. “I don’t think you can.”

_ I should have found another way to get his glove,  _ Anne thought. Her cunt clenched and wondered what Harry would make of her dragging him to bed before the nightfall. Perhaps it would be better to ride a pillow.

Anne put her mouth against Henry’s cheek so he could feel the warmth of her breath. 

“Do not mistake my weaknesses for your own,” Anne murmured. “Hal.”

He pressed an open mouthed kiss to her cleavage and hummed. 

“You have a body made for pleasure Anne,” He replied. “If it were not for your precious reputation I’d wonder why you haven’t yet made use of it.”

_ Fuck you,  _ Anne thought as she felt her cheeks heat up. She knew she was going to be properly wet as her cunt started to throb.

Before she could reply the crack of a branch cut through the air. Anne’s head snapped up, looking around for a guard, a poacher or a nosy courtier. She scrambled off Henry, even as he put a hand on her leg, trying to soothe her. 

Then she saw it. Walking out through the ifs- _ yew trees _ -was a hart with fur as black as a crow’s feathers. 

“Saint’s blood,” Henry said, sitting up himself. It came to the edge of the river and Anne thought it had to be the largest stag she’d ever seen. It looked at them for a moment, big dark eyes taking the two flush faced humans in with an air of such detachment Anne thought they could’ve been weeds underfoot. 

_ He’s a god,  _ Anne thought.  _ A pagan god that’s survived Christ’s long arm for who knows how many millenia.  _

Henry slowly got to his feet. The hart didn’t react.

“If only I had my bow,” He said. The King backed away from her slowly, keeping his eyes on the deer across the stream from them. “He’s magnificent.”

“Where are you going?” Anne asked softly, her own eyes glued to the creature.

“One of my men will have a bow,” He replied, turned tail and scurried off. 

The hart and Anne looked at one another before the great beast walked silently to the river and bent his head to drink. 

She felt a terrible scream rise up in her throat. His antlers were large and certainly stained with the blood of his rivals. Anne wondered if he could trample a man like a warhorse. 

Henry’s horse whinnied and the deer’s head snapped up. Anne sat frozen in place, wondering if she should shoo it away or pray for Henry to hurry up. He might give her the pelt, afterall. 

As quickly as he had come, the hart returned silently to the forest. 

Henry and Anne walked through the woods, with Henry’s guards trailing after them as the sun began to set. The trees loomed overhead and their shadows distorted the forest into something unrecognizable from the daytime. Anne entwined her arm in his and carried her blanket under the other one. 

“I think Henry the Second brought his downfall upon himself,” Henry said suddenly. 

“Not Rosamund?” Anne replied, looking at him with wide eyes and her head tilted. 

“Oh, I think the pain of her loss made his cruelties worse,” Henry replied. “Have you heard tell that the loss of a wedded soulmate can drive a man mad?”

“Vaguely,” Anne grunted, empty belly churning. 

_ We are not wedded,  _ Anne thought.  _ I have my Harry and he has his Princess Summertime. And his Bessie or whatever silly little thing he calls her.  _

She would have to get the blonde drunk enough to vomit and ask her. 

“Tom might be interested in that,” Henry continued. “Perhaps soulmates that have bound themselves together in the eyes of the law and church have no purpose on earth when one has been lost.”

Then he shook his head and chuckled. 

“Our lives,” Anne said stiffly, pursing her lips. “Are defined by God, notby thos around us.”

“Is that ta philosophie de la vie- _ philosophy of life _ ?” Henry asked. 

_ Votre _ _ ,  _ Anne thought.  _ Use fucking votre, you arrogent fuck.  _

“Who would you be if you were everything you’ve been called?” Anne asked. “Your ‘ighness.” 

George was waiting for her in her room with Norfolks summons on his lip and his hand on Mary’s thigh. Anne threw the both of them out to change. She took her time wriggling into a simple grey dress, putting on Harry’s necklace and hanging her largest pearls from her ears. 

Anne balled Henry’s glove up with a set of socks before she left. 

  
  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody catch the other Caligula references in the story?
> 
> Didrane is one of .....five names for Percival's sister according to Wikipedia and I swear I've seen more spellings during my thesis research. In the most well known story she dies donating her blood to cure someone's leprosy but, throughout all her portrayals, acts as a large source support to Percival and the other Knights on the Grail Quest. 
> 
> Lyonesse and Lynette are characters in Beaumains (or the tale of Sir Gareth of Oakney according to wikipedia but Beaumains is what my copies call it so ughhh). Lyonette asks for a Knight of camelot to help her on a quest and Gareth, disguised as a servant gets picked. She's awful to him en route to rescue Lyonesse, her sister, but apologizes when she réalisés who he is. He and Lyonesse fall in love and Lynette cock blocks them until they marry. She then marries his brother.
> 
> The détail about Rosamund's story is apparently true as the story in actual French Chronique of London is written in different link than the rest of it's page and the spacing is different. Source: The one article from the first two pages of search results from JSTOR on the damn book. It was published in 1976 by Médiéval Aevum and is proof I have too much time on my hands.
> 
> Historical Anne would've been hella interested in Thomas More's research on soulmates but this Anne is not there yet. 
> 
> I chose the Roman Emperors at random, mostly to highlight the fact that IDing one's soulmate is based on chance. But only the "great" get remembered. 
> 
> I almost added the upcoming family meeting but this is around 6,000 words, I don't have it finished and there's a big tonal différence so I'm doing it next chapter. 
> 
> Vous vs. Tu: Vous is the formal French "you" and you use it for bosses, coworkers, service personnel, people who are older than you, people you don't know very well (at least that's what I do) etc. I've had a teacher tell a story about how she was refused service because she greeted the owner of the bakery that she went to everyday with "vous" instead of "tu" so, yeah, it can be rude if you get it wrong. I tend to be cautious when I'm aboard so it might be less strict than how I've presented it. Tu is the informal you. In this case it implies a closeness that Anne isn't happy about. 
> 
> This was literally the fourth of fifth scene I wrote for this fic; I've envolved a bit since then; comments are my caffeine so please give me your feedback (bats eyelashes like I'm Anne looking at Harry Percy).
> 
> Edit: Stigmata was when hand and feet rounds appeared on a person's body with no explanation and appeared to mimic Christ's crucifixtion wounds. Sounds god awful.  
> Regarding Anne manipulating Henry. I am Fully aware that portrayals of her using her sexuality to entice and "keep" him are digusting and far too common. I have included the Anne/Henry bit in order for her to get the glove and to further highlight how comfortable she is being manipulative and how she will fall back on it even when she has other options (that man is simping so damn hard you think he wouldn't give her the glove?). Non-sexual manipulation/politicking (has been shown before) is going to be a big part of wrapping up a rather major plotline so reshowing that character trait seemed important.

**Author's Note:**

> Due to the fact that, in the Spanish Princess, Elizabeth of York died in childbirth months (weeks?) after Arthur's death instead of around a year later and Henry was fifteen when Catherine arrived, forcing the show's timeline to fit history is near impossible. It's also so condensed that I'm going to say Henry was twenty when he became king in 1509 which also means Catherine was only in England for five years before she became queen, meaning her arrival would be in 1504 instead of 1501 which also makes Arthur's death 1505.  
> Additionally the inclusion of the Edmund de la Pole-going-to-England-as-a-rebel-instead-of-being-handed-over-as-a-political-prisoner in the show was basically an unfired chekov's gun so I've decided to do some historical mucking up of my own and have Henry survive an assassination attempt. Honestly, the little shit really needed a wake up call in the show so I'm giving him one.  
> To sum it up, Henry's twenty four at the start of this instead of a historically accurate twenty one.  
> This is why you don't mess with timelines, people. *Cough* Phillipa Gregory, you do know Mary might have been Francis the first's mistress right? *Cough*  
> I'm only making Mary the youngest sister because I think it set up the dynamic between the sisters really well.


End file.
